900 Miles (Book 2): 900 Minutes Page 26

  Stepping down from the chopper, Gordon cringed slightly as he used his bad leg to step over Kyle’s body, which now had a small pool of blood circling out from his chest. Gordon remained silent as he stood there, the weapon still pointing at me. I could hear the whispering of the grass and trees as the breeze floated by. There was a calm in the distance, as if the whole world was watching to see what happened next.

  Gordon said,“Why don’t you go ahead and toss that gun over here.”When I hesitated, he pointed the gun down to Kyle’s face.

  “Now, now, John…your boy here is still breathing. You want me to make sure he stops?”

  Flipping the gun around and tossing it, I heard it skip and rattle across the pavement, stopping a few feet from where Gordon stood. Nodding in approval, he stepped away from the chopper and Kyle with his cane slowly clicking as he made his way to the edge of the roof.

  A rage flared in Gordon’s eyes as he glanced over the side at what was left of his base camp. I could see it building as the hand holding his cane began to shake ever so slightly. Taking a deep breath in, he shook his head before turning back toward me. He seemed to be deep in thought before he finally spoke.

  “The world was nothing before I arrived. A festering wound that wouldn’t close. The masses ran rampant, killing us from the inside out. The lazy, the weak, the motivated and the strong…they all needed guidance. I was willing to give that to them.

  “We were ready to rule in a way that hadn’t been achieved since the Gods roamed the Earth. I was going to be humanity’s savior. The man who brought us back from the depths we’d sunken to. Leading the flock toward redemption, toward a way that would save us. It was supposed to be a world where the strong got stronger, while the weak were done away with through this purge.

  “Those creatures down there created an opportunity. One by which we’d change the world, transforming us into a population of strength and prosperity.

  “I created something, I created something.”

  Lifting the gun back up toward me, he paused for a moment before cocking his head.

  “You’ve got a son, don’t you, John?”

  Nodding my head, I didn’t reply with words.

  “I wonder what it’s like raising a child in this world. Not a great place to grow up.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder.“Plenty of good ways to die out there.”

  “Yeah, I suppose there are,”I finally said, almost rhetorically.

  “You think he’ll make it without a father, John?”

  I didn’t respond, but looked directly at the barrel of the gun. So many things flashed in my mind at that moment. Tyler, Jenn, my childhood home, my parents. I think a person’s mind does that so that they aren’t focused on the inevitable, like a coping mechanism just before death.

  The trigger on the gun was nearly audible as I watched Gordon start to squeeze the weapon.

  Closing my eyes, my entire body tensed just before the shot rang out. However…I didn’t feel a thing.

  Opening my eyes, my mouth dropped as I saw Gordon on the ground, screaming, holding his leg. Spinning around, I saw Kyle, who was propped up on one arm holding his rifle.

  Pulling my hammer out, I rushed toward Gordon.

  The old man rapidly filled his lungs as he looked up in pain.

  I expected him to plead for his life, to try to mind fuck me into letting him live. But he surprised me. Looking from me over to the field, Gordon didn’t say a word as he rose to his knees, overlooking the death and destruction he’d created down below. Maybe he realized this was it. Maybe he knew it was time to pay the ultimate price for his actions.

  Shaking his head, as if trying to erase a bad memory, he turned his attention back to me and started to open his mouth to speak when a sound thundered in the distance. I saw the reflection of a shadow in Gordon’s eyes, now wide with fear, as he looked into the sky to try to find the source of the noise.

  The sound itself was familiar in a way that took me back to the life we used to live. A noise as out of place as a prostitute soliciting business in church. It simply shouldn’t have been there, yet above us it rang out, echoing in the Yard.

  My gaze drawn to the ground, I watched as a cross-shaped image crept across the bloody, death-littered field. Like the Grim Reaper himself, the shadow floated over the Zs and the fallen bodies, flying directly toward the inner walls of Avalon.

  None of us said a word as the noise grew louder. We all knew what it was, but none of us knew who it was. For now, it was a distant plane just barely hidden behind the dark clouds.

  The shadow of it started to circle to the right just as it hit the Yard, the dark edge of the wing seeming to slice through my hammer which was held to Gordon’s neck. At the peak of its circle, we heard a sliding metal on metal noise, then what looked like a metal box dropped from the sky, causing the clouds to circle in the same way a rock dropped into a calm pond would cause rings of water to spiral outward.

  Falling fast at first, its descent was quickly slowed as a large orange and white parachute shot out from the top, causing the box to twist in the wind as it headed downward directly toward the middle of the Yard.

  Making eye contact with Gordon, his face told me that he was as confused as I was as the box made contact with the ground. Turning to the right, the box thumped to its side, splashing bloody mud up against one of the nearby cinderblock walls in the Yard.

  A number of survivors from the onslaught cautiously circled up around the crate as Mr. Gate stepped forward and used his good hand to pull some sort of red tape off of a seal and slid a two-foot metal lever up and to the left.

  Jumping back as the door from the box fell with a splash into the mud, Mr. Gate then stepped forward into the darkness of the box. Emerging a moment later, he held a container in his arms as he dug his nails into the edges of the brown cardboard and tape with the eagerness of a lion on its prey.

  Peering into the opening, as if not believing what he saw, he reached in and his hand emerged with a white plastic bag. Giving it a shake, he dropped the rest of the box and tore into the plastic with both hands.

  “Crackers! They’re crackers!”he shrieked to the crowd.

  Not moving a muscle, I looked down at the dirt with the realization of what that meant.

  We weren’t alone. There were others out there.

  Shifting my shoulders, I faced Gordon, peering down at him through my eyebrows. In the sunlight coming up through the horizon, I saw an old man kneeling in front of me. Defeated, and lost, his expression just shy of utter despair.

  I recalled what the crazy old Stripe had told us in the tree fortress.

  They severed the disease like a festering wound.

  Maybe New America had. Maybe we were cut off while they had regained order, while they pulled the world back together on the other side of a wall.

  Those of us still living amongst the dead were nothing more than an experiment growing in a life-sized petri dish. A rapid example of how quickly we’d all turn on each other without order - without rules - without leadership.

  If they were helping now, it wouldn’t be long before we’d be pulled back into the system, their government, their monetary system, their rules, their everything. Perhaps it would go back to normal on the other side. A place where a businessman could do business, sit back in his leather chair daydreaming through meetings. Put up with his boss’s bullshit. Go back to the mundane.

  We were here, fighting over NOTHING. Killing over NOTHING. Dying over NOTHING. The man sitting before me was the catalyst of it all.

  “You did all this for nothing,”I let slip out.

  Gordon couldn’t hurt anybody now. He was broken, and we’d won. The cavalry had shown its face. We’d be on our way out of this, back to civilization.

  I knew it. I knew it all, even then.

  I could have let him live. I could have killed him. Neither option would have made a bit of difference…to most people.

  Gordon knew it was coming. He
realized it before I did. His eyes were begging for mercy. Lowering my shoulder, I let my hammer fall from under his chin for just a moment, before I heard someone call to me.

  “Do it. End it, John.”

  I saw Kyle adjusting himself against the side of the chopper, putting pressure on his chest with his right hand. His voice was low and grave.

  “End it, John. He needs to die.”

  I once heard that people don’t change. You put them under enough pressure and you find out who they really are. I didn’t realize who I was until I stood there on that rooftop.

  I am a killer.

  In one swift motion, I stretched the hammer above my shoulders and swung with both hands. Gordon’s head hit the rooftop with a thud, followed by his lifeless body. His eyes were still open, blankly looking up at me, as if surprised I actually did it.

  Watching the blood spill out over the concrete, I couldn’t help but think one thing.

  A stain. It’s all that’s left of us when we’re gone.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Judgment Day: A Zombie Novel

  Bonus Content:

  To read a letter from Tyler, John’s son, visit this page: www.zombiebook.net/tylersletter

  Acknowledgments:

  Many of my best friends and family members were subjected to the early drafts of 900 Miles. Whether they read it, commented on it, or were simply a sounding board for me during its creation, I want each of them to know that I really appreciate every second that they spent with me on this journey to publish.

  Specifically, I'd like to thank:

  Debbie Davis

  Phil Davis

  Jamie Crosby

  Ryan Dunn

  Ashley Jones

  J. Cornell Michel

  Monique Happy

  Jenaya Cones

  Chad Davis

  David Michaud

  Finally, I’d like to thank my wife, Laurie Davis. Without her encouragement and support, I would never have sat down to type the first word.

  This book would not have come to life without all of you!

  THANK YOU!

  About the Author

  S. Johnathan Davis is an American author, best known for writing apocalyptic horror. He released his first novel, 900 Miles, in January of 2013. In addition to being published in English, Davis’works have been translated to German and converted to audiobook.

  Davis can often be found guest blogging, speaking at events, and participating on podcasts related to the zombie genre. In addition, Davis is an active member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), a prestigious group of global authors dedicated to all that write and read horror.

  Davis resides in Atlanta, GA with his wife and two children.

  Website: www.sjohnathandavis.com

  Twitter: @900milesbook

  1

  For an hour, the last patient of the day had been droning on and on about his abusive father. Dr. Jebediah Stone had heard the depressing tale so many times over the past six months; he could repeat it almost verbatim. Worse yet, the story never varied; a well-rehearsed rationale for the speaker’s abusive behavior. Dr. Stone idly stared out the window at a spotted Gila Woodpecker busily excavating a new hole in the twenty-foot tall saguaro cactus outside his office. The sunshine from a cloudless blue sky and the yellow lantanas blooming like a patch of spring in late November made him wish he could be out there in the fresh air instead of sitting bored in his office.

  Thanksgiving was just a few days away and his thoughts turned to the aroma of pumpkin pie, roast turkey and cranberries. Thanksgiving had always been a season of food, friends, family and fellowship for the Stone family. However, this year, events had transpired to place his favorite holiday on the back burner.

  “What do you think, Dr. Stone?”

  Jeb refocused his attention on his patient, Nelson Sedge. The question was his cue to respond. This time, he decided to vary the dialogue. “I think you need to move on.”

  Sedge’s head jerked in his direction at the unexpected answer. “Move on? What do you mean? He abused me.”

  “Yes, yes, he beat you. I know. You said yourself you were a wild kid, always in trouble. Do you think your father beat you because he hated you or because he wanted to straighten you out?”

  Sedge hesitated, confused by the new focus of the conversation. He had never been grilled before while on the couch and the spotlight made him uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

  Jeb sighed. “Nelson, you’ve told me a dozen times that you’ve forgiven your father; that you want to move on with your life. Why rehash old wounds?”

  Sedge squirmed uncomfortably on the leather couch, his ample backside squeaking on the leather upholstery. “I’m impotent and it’s his fault,” he snapped.

  “You’re impotent because you’re 150 pounds overweight, have high blood pressure and take seven different pills a day for your supposed mood swings. It’s enough to curtail any man’s sex drive. You don’t need a psychologist. What you need is a gym and a good personal trainer.”

  Sedge sneezed without covering his mouth. Jeb winced. Great, all he needed was the flu, especially since his child already had it, and his wife might be coming down with it. Everyone in the whole country seemed to have it, despite the mandatory flu shots.

  “You’re supposed to help me,” Sedge said in an accusatory tone.

  “You have to want to help yourself. Blaming your father is the easy way out. He might have encouraged your low self-esteem and your quick anger, but he’s dead and you are the only one who can change your life. These past six months I’ve listened to you, and even though I have made my observations time after time, you choose to ignore them because they’re inconvenient. I can’t help that. It’s time to take some responsibility for letting your past control your present.”

  Sedge remained silent for a moment before replying harshly, “Maybe, I need a new doctor.”

  Jeb sighed again, this time in irritation. He was tired and his head throbbed. Maybe, he was coming down with the flu despite the vaccine, after all. “You might be right. You won’t listen to me and I can’t in good conscience take your money and offer nothing in return.”

  “I’ve got plenty of money,” Sedge snapped. “I need help.”

  Laying his notepad and pencil aside, Jeb looked at his watch. Since a video recorder captured each session, he seldom took notes, but patients felt reassured by the age-old façade.

  “Your time is up, Nelson. I suggest you seek professional help elsewhere. I’ve done all I can for you.”

  With some difficulty, Sedge levered himself from the couch, glared at Jeb and said quite huffily, “That is exactly what I’ll do, Doctor. I find your manner quite unprofessional, and I don’t think you care anymore.”

  Jeb rose. “You know, you’re right, Nelson. I don’t care. Good day.”

  Quickly, he ushered Sedge out the door and shut it behind him. Then, he returned to his desk and leaned against it for a moment, as a dizzy spell swept over him. I should have taken better care of myself. Nursing Karen and Josh has worn me out. He pressed the concealed button shutting off the video recorder, before buzzing Gloria, his receptionist.

  “Go on home, Gloria. I’m going to change and drop by the florist. It’s Karen’s birthday. God knows a little color might cheer her up a bit.”

  “Send her my love, Dr. S,” she answered.

  Jeb smiled at Gloria’s irreverence for the boss/employee relationship. He liked Gloria, because she brooked no nonsense from him or the patients, and she never failed to offer her opinion about his patients, his choice in ties or his refusal to eat fast food.

  “I’ll do that, Gloria. Good night.” Just as he turned off the intercom, he heard Gloria’s sneeze come through the closed door and shook his head. Her too?

  Changing out of his suit coat and tie was almost more than he could handle. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, finally yanking it off over his head. Thank God, it’s Friday. I need a break.
Finally, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, he felt less the doctor and more the human being. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the belly of the brass Buddha sitting on his desk for luck, a reminder of his and Karen’s vacation to China seven years earlier. His constant daily rubbing had removed the dull patina that covered the rest of the smiling statue, making the prominent belly shine. Gloria, a devout Christian, always chided him for what she called a ‘heathen idol’, but to him it was a simple reminder of better times.

  As Jeb drove west along Ina Road from his Catalina Foothills office, he was surprised at how light the traffic was. The Catalina Mountains formed a spectacular barricade to Tucson’s northern growth, rising majestically to a height of almost 10,000 feet. In stark contrast to the warm late fall day below, snow blanketed the piney slopes of Mt. Lemmon. The major east-west conduit on the city’s north side was usually crowded. People were beginning to panic and stay home. Not that he could blame them. Nearly six thousand people in the U.S. had died of the Avian Flu in the past month, and over fifty thousand in Asia where it had originated. It wasn’t just the old and young succumbing to the ravages of the fever anymore. Men and women, hale and hardy, were beginning to drop like flies.

  “Damn,” he muttered, as he noticed an ambulance rapidly overtaking him in his rear view mirror, lights flashing and siren wailing. He dutifully pulled over to the side of the road. As its siren grew louder, he saw there were three ambulances, followed closely by as many police cars. They shot past him, turned north onto Oracle Road and raced toward the already overflowing medical center on Tangerine Road. Seeing the ambulance convoy reminded him of Karen and Josh. A feeling of anxiety swept over him. Forgoing his idea of flowers, he pulled back into the street and followed the ambulances toward Oro valley.

  His home, a four-bedroom, Pueblo-style house near the western foot of the Catalinas, sat on a private five-acre lot atop a narrow ridge jutting into Alamo Canyon facing Pusch Ridge. As he waited for the gate to open, a second convoy, this once comprised of army trucks and jeeps, rolled northward along Oracle Road. He wondered just what was happening. Was the flu epidemic spreading? Why was the military involved? His heart sank when he saw the silver Lexus of his friend, Doctor Benjamin Reynolds, parked in the drive. He didn’t bother with the garage. He pulled his Hyundai beside Reynolds’ car and rushed inside.