The Ravening

By Stewart Sternberg

Society has collapsed under the weight of the Zagreus Virus and survivors are forced to fight one another as well as the walking corpses that are the Zagreus dead. Trying to find peace in this apocalyptic landscape, a father searches for his family when they are taken by members of a cult who see the animated dead as evidence of divine intervention. The corrupt leader of the Church of the Exalted uses the zombies as a way to control his people and spread his influence throughout the countryside.

The Ravening is the first of several novels following the Tucker family as they struggle to retain their humanity in a world descending into barbarism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stewart Sternberg
• Release date: Jun 3, 2013

Stewart Sternberg

Stewart Sternberg is an educator in Michigan. He's author of numerous stories published online and in anthologies. His first novel, The Ravening, was published by Elder Sign Press. His newest novel, The Emerald Key, is slated to be released by Ticonderoga Publications later this year.

Book preview

The Ravening

Stewart Sternberg

Published by Woodward Press, New Baltimore, Michigan

http://woodwardpress.com

Copyright 2012 by Stewart Sternberg

Smashwords Edition

Another version of this work was previously published in trade paperback by Elder Sign Press

For Jamie, who knows the zombies are outside the window

Chapter One

"The severity of the next pandemic cannot be predicted, but modeling studies suggest that its effect in the United States could be severe. In the absence of any control measures (vaccination or drugs), it has been estimated that in the United States a medium–level pandemic could cause 89,000 to 207,000 deaths, between 314,000 and 734,000 hospitalizations, 18 to 42 million outpatient visits, and another 20 to 47 million people being sick. Between 15% and 35% of the U.S. population could be affected by influenza pandemic"---State of Illinois Pandemic Influenza Preparedness and Response Plan, October 10, 2006

Ken Tucker moved in a low crouch, listening to the woods, knowing the deer he clumsily tracked had to be close by. It wasn’t quite rutting season, but the cold chill in the air signaled an early winter. Low, slow moving clouds floated above the trees. Dampness muted sound and offered temporary peace. The world felt normal. He could almost forget Zagreus.

Surrounded by this quiet, it was possible he was on vacation, spending a weekend with his aging parents before heading back to a teaching job in Chicago. If only that was the reality.

The sound of something pushing through brush caught his attention. He had no idea what direction the sound had come from. He held his breath and listened. He didn’t want to move, fearful action might startle the deer.

He was a terrible hunter. He didn’t have the patience, nor did he know what to look for. Before this summer, Ken had only fired a gun at a range.

His lack of enthusiasm for the outdoors always disappointed his father. The old man regularly tried to coax him into joining hunting trips into Wisconsin or Michigan. Sports, hunting, woodworking--his father reveled in stereotypical masculinity. It became the centerpiece of many adolescent battles.

Ken thought about the last time he saw his father and shuddered. He dropped his head and pushed the memory where it belonged.

A stick snapped. Too close. A breeze played with the few remaining leaves overhead, creating a steady rustling. The chatter of a squirrel sounded nearby and a few black birds took to the air. He watched them circle before settling into the branches of a maple. He waited, still listening to the woods. Something wasn’t right.

Slipping the Winchester’s safety to the off position, Ken turned in anticipation. His heart beat quickly and the small hairs along the backs of his arms rose.

Feet pounded the ground behind him.

He whirled as a bare-chested man charged through the brush. Over six feet tall, the intruder’s skin was waxen, his eyes red-rimmed. A gash in one cheek exposed a row of yellow teeth.

Missing with the first shot, Ken didn’t have time for a second blast. The man was amazingly fast and closer than anticipated. He batted the rifle barrel to the side and plunged into Ken, sending the two of them sprawling.

Ken rolled to get distance between himself and his attacker, but the man scrambled and dove on top of him. He shoved his face forward, the sunken eyes, sclera dull yellow flecked with brown, jerking crazily in their sockets. Ken would have screamed, but his attention was arrested by something small and squirmy working its way through the tear in the cheek and dropping wetly onto his jacket.

Horror ignited action. Ken pushed from the shoulders, just in time to keep the man’s jaws from tearing into him. A strand of blackish drool ran down the chin and spattered Ken’s cheek.

His arms trembled from the strain of holding off the attacker. Nightmarish eyes jerking side to side within their sockets and the man inched closer.

Ken took a deep breath. Matching the man’s tremendous strength with desperation, he shoved harder, muscles burning with the effort. He was going to lose this battle. Feeling his arms about to buckle, he intuitively changed strategy and went slack. The sudden change in resistance caught his opponent by surprise and the attacker’s face smacked the ground as Ken flung himself to the side to avoid being bitten.

An impossible sliver of hope emboldened him. Freed from the man’s weight, Ken’s hands gripped the Winchester. He got to his knees quickly and raised the weapon to fire. The man was on his feet again, his back to Ken. As he spun around to renew an attack, Ken pulled the trigger.

A .30 caliber shell punched through the man’s sternum. The man dropped to the ground, black blood seeping into brightly colored leaves. The figure was still.

Ken knew what would happen. Anticipating the wrongness of the moment didn’t lessen the impact.

The dead man rose.

Climbing first to one knee, then pushing up with both arms, the corpse staggered to its feet. A sick sound escaped the bluish lips, a strange hissing that seemed to go on forever.

The dead eyes sought Ken out.

This time Ken took the time to aim and the shot ripped apart the top of the man’s skull. The dead man hit a tree trunk and slid down the bark, a black smear marking his path. He collapsed in a heap at its roots.

Ken calmed himself. He swallowed quickly to stem the familiar nausea and scanned the surrounding woods for any other threat. Finding nothing with his naked eye, he raised the Winchester and examined the landscape through the scope.

God, he whispered and lowered the rifle.

Tears ran down his cheeks and he was grateful no one was around to see this moment of weakness. Before this summer, he hasn’t cried much as an adult. Now he often found his eyes welling up unexpectedly. He wiped his sleeve across his face and froze at the dark stain on the fabric. With alarm he slapped a hand to his neck to feel if he had been scratched or bitten. He then checked his hands and glanced at his arms and legs. Seeing no evidence of broken skin, his breathing slowed to normal.

Too close this time.

Ken approached the body and squatted to examine it more closely. He used a stick to poke the exit wound. It was a gory mess. The stick came away glistening black.

The biology teacher in him came to the forefront as Ken considered the color. In animals, nitrate poisoning might turn the blood brown. Extreme oxidation could also change the color. He wondered what toxins Zagreus prompted the body to produce before it died. More than likely the change allowed the body to function longer after death.

This was the tenth Zagreus dead he had taken down since August, when he and his family got out of Chicago and headed for the safety of a rural environment. Looking at the corpse, he thought of the rhyme he heard kids singing before the reality of Zagreus descended.

A cough, a sneeze, a gentle breeze, the Reaper brings you to your knees.

Maybe they first heard it on TV. He recalled a show with children wearing those white face masks, the kind common in Japan before the virus hit. For a while everyone wore them. If they couldn’t find a mask at a store, then they improvised by tying linen about their faces.

Ken squatted and studied the dead man’s face. He was thankful it was nobody he knew. Since the plague began, two of the Zagreus victims he had been forced to put down were neighbors. One was a good friend. Lee Ryan came to the house the day they were preparing to leave Chicago, tears streaming from his eyes as he begged forgiveness for butchering his wife and two children and for what he was about to do to Ken and his family. Ken shot him as he lunged.

First the fever, then the violence-laden psychosis, and finally death. Reanimation of the corpse occurred shortly after, although the time between death and animation was definitely lessening.

In Lee’s case it took about five minutes before Zagreus raised him up.

Gathering leaves into his arms, Ken dropped them over the dead man’s face. In another lifetime he would have said a prayer. He grew bitter thinking how much had changed, and how each day was marked by uncertainty. There was no way to look ahead. He slung his rifle over a shoulder and paused to look at the body one last time. A tattoo on the upper arm of the corpse caught his attention. It was crudely inked in dark blue and outlined in red: a half-open eye dripped two streams of blood, the stream on the right longer than the one on the left.

It made him think of the tattoos he had seen on some of the kids at the school where he taught.

All you need is an ink pen and a razor blade, one boy said. He had his sleeve rolled back to display a skull. Beside the skull were numerous burn marks.

This symbol was familiar. Were it not so poorly inked, it might have resembled an Egyptian hieroglyphic. He strained to remember but couldn’t. He gave up and wiped his hands with damp leaves and rubbed his palms along his pant legs to dry them. He’d have to remember not to touch his eyes or rub his mouth until he could get home and wash properly. His shirt tails had come pulled out during the fight. He methodically shoved them back into the waistband.

Feeling calmer, more in control, Ken glanced up at the grayness above the treetops. He had time before dark, but no longer felt like hunting. He wanted to go home. He wanted to spend time checking the parameter, making sure their defenses were in place.

* * * *

Ken saw the SUV before stepping out of the tree line. It was a Chevy Traverse, and tracks showed it had slid sideways down the embankment from the road, crashing through the brush before finally smashing into a tree. Steam still rose from the radiator.

He studied the scene, considering staying in the woods and moving parallel to the road. Instinct told him to avoid this. In the last few months he had gotten good at avoiding things and doing without. It was safer that way. Maybe it was naïve, but it worked so far.

He listened for anything out of the ordinary, but heard only the wind.

Looking at the moist soil he noted a clear footprint and beyond that broken twigs. This was where the man in the wood had come from. Was he a passenger in the SUV who turned, or had he possibly caused the accident?

Curiosity over-rode caution. Crouching, he slipped through the vegetation and approached the vehicle. He could see the corner of a small trailer attached to the rear of the vehicle. He kept the rifle at the ready and climbed the incline until he stood on blacktop.

Nothing moved within the SUV and the only sounds came from the leaking engine. He lowered the rifle and approached the driver’s side. A man sprawled across the front seat, a large fellow with broad shoulders and a lantern jaw. His eyes were open, and a keen expression of surprise was fixed on his face. Gore ran from a wound in the man’s throat. A bullet hole marred his forehead. The windows, the dash, and the seats were all blood splattered.

Ken stepped back from the car, thick eyebrows dropping into a frown. The man had to have turned while in the car, either as the driver or a passenger. First his throat had been torn out, and then he had been shot in the forehead, probably as Zagreus had raised him.

Moving around the rear of the vehicle, Ken inspected the trailer. Boxes were covered by a tarp and tied down by yellow laundry cord slipped through a couple eyehooks. There were chains wrapped around a spool and fed through a couple of iron clasps driven into the wood. Someone had fashioned shackles.

What the hell, Ken muttered. He stepped back and proceeded to the passenger side.

Another body lay on the ground. He was a frail man with silver hair and loosely fitting clothing, all black. A white arm band wrapped about his upper arm. On the arm band was the symbol Ken noted earlier, a half eye with parallel drops of blood.

Ken stared and waited, trying to decide if the man were still alive. If he wasn’t, Zagreus would have raised him.

Hello? Ken called. He immediately felt foolish. He neared the prone figure, finger tensing against the trigger. Two point two pounds of pressure were needed to discharge his rifle. Ken paused, marveling that such a detail would pass through his mind. Two point two pounds.

He prodded the shoulder of the fallen man. Nothing. He felt his heart quicken and prodded again.

Gathering his nerve, he reached down and turned the man over. Skin and bones. He was small. He couldn’t be more than a hundred pounds.

The man’s eyes abruptly opened.

Ken stepped back, catching his breath.

The man blinked and red tinged the spittle at the corners of his mouth, evidence of internal bleeding. Tears spilled over the man’s cheeks and streamed down leathery skin. He took a deep breath and wheezed. Ken came close and helped the skeletal figure into what he hoped would be a more comfortable position.

Can you hear me? Ken asked.

The old man moved thin lips, but only nonsense syllables emerged. Beads of sweat along the man’s narrow forehead suggested fever.

I don’t understand you, Ken said. He spoke in a soft voice, sorry for the man, who was clearly suffering and frightened.

Again the doomed man tried to speak. The blue eyes darted from side to side, the sclera yellowed and bloodshot. Watching him, Ken knew he was looking at the virus.

When they stop talking, it’s time to start shooting, Henry Lindsey, a former neighbor once said. That was back when people were still convinced the government could and would do something to save them.

Once they stop talking, it’s time to start shooting.

Ken shuddered, trying to block out memories. He blinked hard and fought off an image of his father.

The old man struggled to rise, trying to push off against the SUV. Groaning pathetically, he slid back down, landing hard and cutting his cheek in the process. He cried harder now, shoulders rising and falling. His breath sounded as if he might be chain-stoking. He didn’t have long.

Do it, the man rasped. He raised a hand and pointed at the barrel of the rifle.

Where are you from? What happened? Ken asked.

The man shook his head from side to side. The question appeared to agitate him. He whispered something and Ken recognized it by its cadence and intonation as prayer. The old man’s brow furrowed and a smile played upon his thin bluish lips. He laughed softly, a bitter sound. Sucking in oxygen, he fixed a defiant gaze on Ken.

God is watching, he said. Ken’s eyes travelled to the armband and its odd symbol. He knows who believes and who don’t. It’s He who raises up.

What happened? Ken asked again. The old man grinned. He was babbling. Not in his right mind.

We’ve spreading God’s work, the man said. The phrase from his ancient lips was a death rattle. He shut his eyes in pain and grimaced. Shoot.

Ken’s arm trembled.

Shoot.

Two point two pounds of pressure and the deer rifle kicked. The shot hit the old man in the cheek, breaking teeth and bone. Another round painted the side of the SUV with blood. Ken continued firing, shouting now, watching with self-loathing as the bullets ripped through the man’s broken body.

When the ammunition was spent, he lowered the weapon and stared sadly at his handiwork. His temples throbbed and he felt lightheaded. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

Stop. Hold it together.

Ken swallowed quickly to keep from vomiting, but it was too late. He leaned over and threw up his lunch.

Too much had changed in the last few months, too many people had died, and too many people were going to die. Thinking of his two sons, Ken marveled at the unfairness of it all.

He stood for a long time, shoulders sagging under the weight of change and responsibility.

The moment of weakness passed. Hardening himself, he slung the rifle over a shoulder and prepared to search the SUV.

Looking up at the road, he froze.

Standing above him, at the peak of the embankment, dark against a gray-white October sky stood three figures. All were dressed in white sheets flapping in the cold wind. Ken tried to understand what he was looking at. His confusion was tinged with growing dread. As the figures started stiffly down the slope toward him, unnatural marionettes, he knew it was Zagreus pulling the strings.

Chapter Two

"Our rural communities are committed to growth, meeting changing economic realities while meeting the needs of the people. Our focus though is always toward the responsible and value-oriented families who are our bedrock." ---The Illinois Rural Development Group.

He had wasted ammunition. His options were now diminished. He could either break for the woods or dive into the Chevy Traverse in the hopes of finding a weapon. People didn’t travel without protection.

Ken yanked open the driver’s door.

The air inside was putrid. Gagging, he gripped the corpse within and dragged it from the SUV. He cringed at the prospect of what he was about to do but didn’t hesitate to search the decaying corpse. His hand ran along the man’s waistband and down the pant leg to ankles.

Nothing.

Shit!

It had to be in the vehicle. No one travelled unarmed.

The figures shuffling down the slope would be on him in seconds. He didn’t know how long they had been dead, but their awkwardness suggested advanced deterioration; unlike the man who attacked him in the wood.

There was still time to outrun them.

Something about the figures movement gave Ken pause. Now that they were closer he could see they were joined together by rope. A line was cinched about the waists of each dead man and attached to a thicker fourth cord trailing behind them.

Ken plunged into the SUV. He scanned the interior and ran his hands over the bloodied objects in the front seat: Road maps, binoculars, a bottle of distilled water, a bottle of pills, a carton of cigarettes, rope, and an old fashioned compass.

The white clad figures were almost on him.

Ken slammed the lock on the driver’s side and then leaned over and made sure the passenger’s side was secured. A squat, dark-skinned man pressed his face pressed against the window, his mouth rapidly opening and closing. His eyes were deep set and milky. His skin was rough, with black blotches against brown skin.

Ken stretched and ran his hands along the floor under the seat. He came up with an empty soda bottle and a ratchet set in a plastic container. He shook the box, thinking it didn’t sound quite right.

A fist slammed against the driver’s side window.

The black man’s face contorted as he reared back and pounded the window again. This time it shattered, bits of safety glass scattering the car’s interior.

Ken’s fingers fumbled with the catch on the ratchet set box. Using his thumb, he popped it open. Inside was a handgun, a Smith and Wesson SW1911PD.

Thank you, Lord, he mumbled.

Checking the safety, Ken raised the weapon and fired. The bullet hit the man below the eye. He squeezed the trigger again and the next shot bit through the forehead. The attacker’s jaw dropped open and he slid out of view along the side of the vehicle, his weight dragging the line connecting him to the other two figures.

Ken drew a bead on the second one. The man was of medium frame, with a hideously distended stomach. His left arm was gangrenous black and his eyes jerked back and forth within their sockets.

Ken fired.

A chunk of the man’s neck disappeared. Another bullet blasted through the jaw. The third shot demolished the rest of his face.

The third of the Zagreus dead moved slower than the others had. A spidery network of veins showed beneath the powdery white skin. His left eye was sunken. The right was missing; something gray trailed from the corner of the socket.

Ken hesitated. The creature snarled, stretching toward him as if sensing him through its blindness.

He fired three times and the body dropped unceremoniously. Ken inched across the seat to peer down at the corpses.

Zombies.

He seldom used the term, but that’s what the media called them when the pandemic hit. That’s what they were. At some point the body shut down and the virus, or whatever the hell it was, continued to feed, animating the corpse until decay finally finished it—although that took a long time, and that time seemed to be lengthening.

The Zagreus Zombies, one newspaper ran a headline after a popular television personality, a doctor on a daytime show, used the phrase. Zagreus was a Greek God, torn apart and devoured by the Titans only to be resurrected by Zeus.

Ken stared through the blood-spattered windshield, his mind drifting until the numbness released him and the urge to flee the area sparked action.

He reached into the ratchet box and found two spare clips and a box of .45 acp cartridges. He pocketed them and also grabbed the maps and binoculars. Checking the glove compartment, he found an unopened packet of batteries. Ken pocketed these as well.

Ken left the vehicle and studied the three bodies. He knelt and tugged at the rope connecting one to the other. Why were they tied together?

It was as if they were being herded.

The idea was ludicrous enough to make him laugh out loud. His eyes returned to the body of the old man. He removed the white armband from his pocket and ran a finger of the symbol, sewn into the cotton with dark blue and red thread. When he got home he would check some reference books and see if he could find out what the eye and its two long tears symbolized.

He approached the trailer hooked to the SUV and climbed onto it. He examined the iron clasps and then turned to the blue tarp, using the gun barrel to peek underneath it. He then pushed it back further to examine the boxes there. Most contained odds and ends, probably gathered from abandoned houses. One box contained several white sheets cut to be worn as ponchos, like the ones on the nearby Zagreus dead. And he found another armband.

Where were these people from? They weren’t just scroungers. Paxton? Gibson? Rantoul? What about Champaign? Ken wanted to stay away from towns until things settled down.

The last time he rode his motorcycle into a populated area—Gifford--he’d seen only five or six people milling about, all stone-faced, carrying guns at the ready. They showed no outward interest in him, but if he stopped there would have been little welcome. Gifford wasn’t exactly friendly to outsiders before the pandemic. Now, the remaining residents took no chances on unfamiliar faces.

Ken rummaged through the boxes and found several packets of food rations. Sticking the Smith and Wesson into his waist band, and slinging the Winchester over one shoulder, pulled out a 20 count carton of rations to haul home.

****

Ken headed back through the woods in a direct path to his parents’ farmhouse. He mulled over the meaning of the truck and its passengers. His fatigue magnified his sense of dread.

He was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well these last several nights, and the looseness of his clothing was evidence of the weight lost since they fled Chicago. The love-handles were gone, as was the slight belly he had accepted as part of his advance toward middle age. He was transforming, abandoning the physical ties to his other life.

He thought of Chicago.

The last communication he had with friends confirmed they had made the right decision leaving. Cities hadn’t fared well. Too many people competed for too little resources. He tried calling neighbors and friends, but communications died in early August. The summer seared through the city, worsening the health situation as power outages deprived the sick and elderly of air-conditioning and essential services.

We should go to the mountains, Erik said.

His son had followed information on the radio, marking possible routes across the country on a map. A red circle showed where the provisional government had supposedly been established. Ken remembered being tempted, but it was likely an army of others were traveling toward that spot even now. Who knew what kind of chaos such a group might drag in its wake. Better to wait and let things settle down and maybe fly under the radar for a little while.

The urgency of flight dwindled as the radio broadcasts came further apart and finally drifted into white noise. People were left to either hope the government was still working to restore things, or dig in and make their own stand.

They were doing okay for now. The winter was coming, and he was sure they could make it until spring, and then decide on a course of action. A lot could change by then. Besides, Ken didn’t consider himself a survivalist. Heading cross country with his family was a daunting challenge.

We could stay with Nana, eleven-year-old Sam suggested. Nancy, Karen’s mother, lived in an isolated part of South Dakota, not far from Lower Brule’ Sioux reservation. He and Karen discussed the idea, but again there were too many unknowns. They kept it as an option.

Ken left the wood and headed across the field. He watched the landscape for anything out of the ordinary as he approached the small house and its nearby pole barn. Every felt right. His shoulders relaxed and he stepped more quickly to the back of the property.

He avoided the primitive security system Sam dreamed up. It was a network of string and wire fastened to numerous bells. If you didn’t know to look for the cords, the system was easy to miss. At night they were invisible. Sam was proud of his accomplishment, and Ken had to admit he’d grown fond of it, too. Sam was an inventive kid, and adaptive.

His wife met him at the back door. Willowy Karen, with dimpled cheeks and sleek black hair flowing straight down her shoulders, looked like she had when they first married some eighteen years ago. Maybe not exactly, but he could barely remember that time in their lives. That time belonged to someone else now. She appeared pleased to see him, but there was an underlying tension.

She followed him through the kitchen and he knew she had something on her mind. He guessed the cause of her tension, and decided to bring it up first.

How’s Mother? he asked. He set the box of rations down and turned to hug her.

Where did those come from? she asked. Avoiding the question was an answer itself.

A Chevy Traverse broke down about three miles from here. On the other side of the woods.

She put her hands on her hips and waited for him to say more.

Were there people? she asked.

Ken spread his arms and shrugged, knowing how inane the gesture must appear.

They were dead, he said.

Karen nodded. Death had become so commonplace. Still, she stared at him as though sensing there was more to his story. Not wanting to talk about it, Ken glanced uneasily toward the den which had been converted to a bedroom for his mother.

As he was about to step around her, Karen grabbed his bicep and squeezed hard so her nails dug in.

"Why don’t you wait until after