The Phoenix Curse (Book 1): After Read online

  After

  Part 1

  Book one of

  The Phoenix Curse

  ~ ~ ~

  By D. R. Johnson

  Copyright 2012 by D. R. Johnson

  Cover design and artwork by Debra Johnson

  http://drjpublishing.blogspot.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. For information or to obtain permission, contact Deborah Johnson, Grand Prairie, Texas. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  For Sierra, my lovely daughter, who helped me find something I lost long ago.

  My inspiration.

  PROLOGUE

  It's after...

  I couldn't give you an exact date if I tried, but I know I'm heading into the fifth winter since the world tumbled into chaos. I was only eighteen when it started. Young. Irresponsible. Selfish. The traits every child had by right as they floundered into adulthood. At least until everything was stripped away.

  I can still remember what started it all. One morning during the summer of 2012, an article popped up on my news feed that piqued my interested.

  Zombie Attack in Florida!

  Who could resist clicking THAT link? Not to mention, it was from the Washington Post, a news source that even I recognized as creditable.

  After quickly scanning the article and finding out the attack was drug induced, my curiosity died but the details of the attack were still chilling. The 'zombie' had been high on a new drug called Bath Salts and apparently decided he was hungry enough to chow down on the most convenient meal he could get his hands on. That just so happened to be the face of the nearest homeless man.

  Drugs are bad, mkay?

  As disturbing as that image is, that wasn't the most bizarre thing I read in that article. To me, the worst part was reading about how the cop tried to stop the face-eater. I imagine he started off by saying something along these lines;

  "Excuse me, good sir. Could you refrain from eating this gentleman's face?"

  Or maybe he went with something a bit more common place and just yelled 'FREEZE!' The details weren't very clear on that. What WAS clear was the fact that he shot the guy and only got growled at for his trouble. Then our zombie went right back to munchin'. A bullet in his stomach barely fazed him! The second bullet the cop put in his head certainly proved more of an inconvenience. He may not have felt pain, but that had killed him and he stayed dead.

  The article was just a flash in the pan and it quickly faded away.

  Then came December 2012 and the doomsayers were saying what they will. Surprisingly enough, the Mayans had it right, but the world didn't end in volcanoes and earthquakes and hurricanes.

  No. It turned out to be us all along. We wanted so badly to believe in something that we ended up pulling the trigger on ourselves.

  It started with more face-eaters popping up around Christmas, and the media informed us it was all linked to the bath salts drug again. Only it wasn't bath salts. Maybe it was a virus, or an outbreak of some kind, but those first face-eaters were our warning before everything went to hell. Most of us weren't even paying attention to the beginning of the end.

  By New Year, there was no recovering from the infestation. Before the news stations went down, they'd finally decided to stop feeding us the bath salt bullshit. They told us to stay in our houses. Lock the doors. Load the guns.

  Five years ago, the end of days arrived.

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  ALI

  My heart was thundering in my chest, racing so fast I thought it might explode. I gasped for breath to satiate my aching lungs as they burned for air, the deprivation a result of our panicked flight.

  How did they get in?

  My limbs felt numb and disjointed, like I was trying to control hands that weren't mine.

  "Go!" I yelled as tears ran unheeded down my cheeks. My father was still standing there in the dark hallway, a forlorn look on his face. He had been refusing to leave with the rest of the group. "Get them somewhere safe!"

  Nowhere is safe.

  He yelled something back, but I couldn't make it out over the growls and screams of the diseased. Smoke and steam obscured my vision and, by the time it cleared, he was gone.

  I wiped the tears and sweat from my face as I pulled out what was left of my bullets.

  Thirteen.

  The last time I was able to get a good visual, there were easily twenty of those things out there. That number could have grown since then.

  "You're mine." I said solemnly as I pulled one bullet out, and dropped it in my pocket.

  I loaded my father's revolver, a beautiful piece of workmanship that would soon be entombed with me. I sniffled, but held in my sobs. I had a job to keep me focused, and damn me if I didn't give them enough time to get away.

  Dodging another burst of steam from the broken water pipe, I ran to the door my father had been standing at. The hallway on the other side was empty.

  Good.

  I closed the door and pushed the old oak desk in front of it. It was heavy and took longer than I would have liked, but I could feel my strength dwindling. Already, the sweat was drying on me as the fever set in.

  Turning back to the door on the other side of the small room, I could see the barricade was still holding... barely.

  The door rattled and shook and the wood was starting to splinter at the handle.

  I could see them through the glass panel that ran halfway down the side of the door. By some miracle, the glass was still holding, but I was about to change that.

  The balding freak at the front was getting smashed by his comrades behind him, but that didn't stop him from hissing and clawing at the glass. It looked like his nose had been busted up pretty bad, judging by the amount of gushing blood that was being smeared everywhere. His red eyes were fixed on me as I moved in front of the window.

  He raged and screamed, clawing at the glass to get to me. He hated me, and nothing short of death would stop him.

  I leveled the revolver at his head and ended his plight.

  The glass shattered in a glorious rain of glittering shards, and the freak's body was pushed forward by the press behind him. I didn't think it would fit through the window frame but I heard bones cracking as they gave way. I watched the macabre scene as the torso flopped lifelessly over into my half of the room, dangling at an awkward angle as its bottom half remained trapped on the other side.

  Now that the glass barrier was gone, their bloodlust renewed. I cringed at the new surge of rage filled cries.

  I stepped up, my boots crunching on the broken glass, and took aim again. Two more fell in quick succession.

  I had to wait for the rest to push the bodies out of the way and find their way to the window. It wasn't worth the risk to take a shot if I wasn't positive it would kill something. It didn't take long.

  I emptied the gun, and found my hands shaking terribly when I reloaded. I cursed the wound on my arm, seeing the red welts had spread considerably from when I was bitten just over thirty minutes ago.

  My fingers felt numb and fuzzy. Two bullets fell and rolle
d across the floor, only to fall down the drain in the middle of the room.

  "Dammit!"

  I ground my teeth together as I took aim again, the last four shots going quickly. The bolt no longer held the door closed, having been forced open by the pressure behind it. The only thing holding it closed was the barricade. There was a groan as the metal locker started to give way, and I knew it wouldn't be long.

  I retreated to the closest, pulling the door closed behind me. They would never be able to figure out how to open the door, but they'd never leave either. Given enough time, they'd eventually break through.

  No way out.

  Didn't matter, I was dead already. I pulled out the last bullet and clenched it tightly in my palm.

  One way out.

  There was a loud crack, followed by a thump, as the barricade finally gave way. Despite knowing it was going to happen, I couldn't suppress the scream I let out as they fell against the door, snarling and beating against it.

  I finally allowed myself to break down into sobs as the fever drug my weakened body to the floor. The sound only seemed to incite them more, but at least it was keeping them here instead of going after my father and the others.

  There was a small stream of light coming in from the bottom of the door. It was just enough to see by so I could finish my last task.

  I sat up, and fought a huge wave of dizziness. I pushed myself back against the shelving to keep myself from falling over. Once it passed, I pulled the revolver into my lap.

  Why was it so heavy now?

  My fingers were useless as I tried to dump the empty casings, and everything clattered to the floor. Even over the cacophony of moans on the other side of the door, I heard the cylinder land and roll away into the darkness.

  I groaned, laying down against the concrete floor and reached into the void to find the lost cylinder, the other hand still clutching my last bullet.

  The void swallowed me.

  * * *

  I gasped awake, covered in a film of sweat. The cool morning air was chilling as it dried the sheen.

  It had just been a dream of a memory. A memory turned into a nightmare. Moaning slightly, I covered my head with the blankets and burrowed down into the bed, still shivering.

  I closed my eyes again, invoking the good memories to combat the bad. I recalled my father's laughter and my mother's singing, thinking back to a time we were all still together and happy. A time before the divorce ripped us a country apart. The old times, before the world turned.

  I wondered again, for the thousandth time it seemed, if my father had made it out of that school. I knew those thoughts led down a dark path, though. A path I couldn't afford to let my mind wander down. I had searched for months, followed trails that led me in the wrong directions, and still never managed to find anything concrete.

  I eventually accepted the inevitable, and I had moved on.

  Now, it might be some time in late September, maybe even early October, but there was no way I could know for sure. I could feel the ache of loneliness growing deep in the pit of my stomach. It was a longing to have someone to talk too, to travel with, and share stories and ideas with.

  I swallowed it down. I knew it was better to be alone. Better to be alone than watch someone I love get ripped apart. I couldn't go through that again.

  I let the thoughts die away as I reluctantly stretched to work the stiffness out of my muscles. After finally abandoning the sanctuary of my bed, I looked down on the world from my second story window. For roughly three months, I had called this little neighborhood home, and had spent a good amount of time spying on its inhabitants.

  They were still there, milling about like listless cattle. They were always there. I had heard them called many different names. Face-eaters, walkers, demons, infected, and even zombies.

  Unlike the traditional undead zombies, as was the fad that was rampant before the infestation, these things weren't dead. They still breathed and still bled, but all humanity was left behind when they turned. To me, they were just freaks. No other name fit better in my mind.

  As I held one of the blankets around my shoulders to ward away the chill morning air, my breath fogged up the glass. I watched as the balding beasts shuffled around each other with no real purpose. Some of them would walk from one end of the street to the other, just to turn around and walk back in the other direction.

  Others were a bit more ambitious, walking around the entire block but never changing direction. They were just forever walking in circles, wearing away the soles of their shoes in their endless loop.

  A few carried around tools they had used in their normal life. There was one that wore what I assumed to be gardener's clothes and drug a rake behind him. Another one wore what was left of a suit, complete with a tie, and he toted around his briefcase. A lot of the women held their purses still, or what was left of them anyway. I had been here so long I could recognize most of them now by sight.

  My neighbors.

  Maybe it was time to move on.

  I wasn't able to stomach watching them for more than a few minutes anymore. I turned away from the window to get started on my morning ritual; taking inventory and planning out my day.

  I went through the same motions every morning without fail, even though I hadn't been mobile since before the heat of the summer set in.

  I was taking quite the chance living in this house. Even if the freaks were docile towards me, there might come a day when that would change with no warning. For right now, the freaks offered protection from those out there that were still unaffected by the disease.

  Some of the people that were uninfected seemed less than human. Losing the foundation of society changed people. It let the monster inside come out. The people like that were just as deadly to me, if not more, than those freaks outside.

  I spread the blankets out over my bed and smoothed out the wrinkles, making it look clean and tidy. The notion was ridiculous in this day and age, but this house, this whole neighborhood, had hardly been damaged, and at least I could return to a semblance of normality and daily routine while I stayed here.

  Grabbing my packs, I set them out on the bed. First, I tossed up my sturdy hiker's backpack that I'd recently pulled out of one of those old supercenter department stores. It was nice and new, unlike my well-worn belt pack that I'd removed from a dead GI back in the early days. I'd had that belt pack for so long it was like it was a part of me now. I dropped it on the bed, ignoring it for the time being and starting with the big pack.

  Going through the contents systematically, I set everything out on the bed in proper order so I could get a quick visual if anything was missing. I knew nothing would be. Not now. Not in the relative safety of this little utopia I'd stumbled on, but, regardless, I faithfully repeated my ritual on a daily basis.

  The pack probably weighed about twenty pounds now. I knew it was going to take some time getting used to the weight when I decided to move on again, so I tried to make sure I didn't over-stuff anything. That would also cause the zippers to break and the fabric to wear out early. Never knowing when I'd come across a good pack again, I took care of the ones I had.

  Starting with the blankets and spare clothing, I set them out on the bed first, and followed that with my many different containers for food and water. I had one container dedicated to eating utensils, including a new can opener I'd found in this house. It was much better than the old rusty one I traded out for it.

  My extra bullets and a few small games, which included a deck of cards and a few dice, were set in their place next. The containers full of miscellaneous things came last. These were just a small treasure trove of things I thought might come in handy at some point. Once I got my visual on everything, I meticulously repacked the bag and moved on to the belt pouch.

  The items in my belt pouch were much more personal. Anytime I was on the move, even for a brief scouting run, I strapped the pouch on. Although it seemed unlikely that I wouldn't be able to make it back to the ho
use, I wasn't willing to take that chance. Always err on the side of caution.

  Some of the contents of my belt pouch included an old Swiss army knife, my hairbrush, toothbrush, and my old broken MP3 player. I also kept my notepad and a collection of pens and pencils in the pouch, although I didn't write much down anymore.

  In the smaller side pocket, held shut by a tiny zipper, was where I kept a locket that had a picture of my mother in it and a ring my father had given me on a Christmas Eve ages ago. I only unzipped the pocket to get a visual. There was no need for me to lay these out on display.

  Finally, I pulled out the little stuffed kitten that Seth had gotten for me. I always saved this one for last, and I only pulled it out for a second today. It was black with bright green eyes, and it wore a lacey ribbon around its neck that had yellowed from age. Smiling sadly, I pet the little head with my thumb before tucking it safely away again.

  The next on my list were the extra backpacks I had stumbled across here and there. I decided it would be a good idea to collect them. This was much lighter, but something that would definitely be going with me. Essentially, it was nothing more than one big backpack full of smaller packs, pouches and containers. I figured it was better to have extra and not need them, than need one and not have it.

  Once done with the packs, I moved on to my ever important weaponry. I slept with these near me almost one-hundred percent of the time. My dad's old revolver had a special place under my pillow. I was so thankful he had taken the time to teach me how to shoot before we were separated. Out of the many things he taught me, this was one of the most appreciated.

  The next on my list was my most preferred weapon, my large Bowie knife. For protection, I had slept with this blade for so long it was hard for me to sleep without the feel of the hilt in my hand. Of course I kept it in its sheath during the night. No reason to accidentally slice my ear off while I was sleeping, but it was convenient if I needed it. Also, using the knife meant no reloading, no noisy discharge, and no running out of ammo. That's a short list of important benefits.