The Nation 07: The Nation, #7

By Dell Sweet

Their apartment, a small, second-floor unit in what was once a bustling Los Angeles high-rise, had become their sanctuary, their fortress against the relentless tide of the infected. Months of scavenging, sweat, and ingenuity had transformed it from a cramped living space into a surprisingly resilient stronghold. Boarded-up windows, reinforced doors, and a makeshift barricade crafted from salvaged furniture and metal scraps guarded their only entrance. A crudely fashioned alarm system, consisting of strung fishing line and empty cans, added a layer of rudimentary warning. But even this carefully constructed defense felt fragile, a thin veneer against the encroaching horror.

Beth, her face pale but resolute, checked the meager supply of scavenged weapons scattered around the room. A rusty pipe, a makeshift spear fashioned from a broken broom handle, and a battered baseball bat – not exactly the arsenal of a seasoned warrior, but the best they could muster in a world gone to hell. Billy, his eyes scanning the shadows beyond the barricaded doorway, ran a hand over the worn leather of his makeshift holster, its single, precious bullet a silent promise of a last desperate stand.

The silence stretched, a taut string threatening to snap. Then, it came.

Not a gradual increase in the distant moans, not a warning shuffle of infected feet, but a sudden, brutal assault. A ferocious crash ripped through the silence as something massive slammed against their barricade, followed by a chorus of guttural snarls and the sickening crunch of wood splintering under immense force. The apartment shook, the air vibrating with the sheer force of the attack.

The cans on their alarm system clattered to the floor, a shrill metallic shriek that instantly pierced the chilling silence. Beth let out a short, sharp gasp, her hand instinctively reaching for the rusty pipe. Billy drew his makeshift weapon, his muscles tense, his eyes burning with a fierce, desperate resolve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writerz
• Release date: Sep 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301576098

Dell Sweet

Dell Sweet was born in New York. He wrote his first fiction at age seventeen. He drove taxi and worked as a carpenter for most of his life. He was honorably discharged from the U.S. Navy in 1975. He has written more than twenty books and several dozen short stories.

Book preview

The Nation – 07

By Dell Sweet

All rights foreign and domestic reserved in their entirety.

Cover Art © Copyright 2021 Dell Sweet

Some text copyright 1984, 2000, 2004, 2005, 2021 Dell Sweet

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2021 Dell Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author's permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

Prologue

L.A: Billy Jingo and Beth: Evening: March 9th Billy Jingo and Beth trying to get out of Los Angeles alive, before they meet Bear and Pearl... He came up from sleep fast, Jamie's face above him, her voice a low, panicked whisper. Wha... What... What? Downstairs... It's downstairs, she didn't finish, but she didn't need to. A crash came to his ears, but he could not tell if it was from the downstairs hallway. At least he hoped it was the downstairs hallway, not the stairs outside of their apartment, or, God forbid, even closer. He jumped from the tangle of blankets, started to pull his shoes on, and then reached for his machine pistol instead as another noise came from the hallway. This time it did sound like the downstairs hallway; the steel gate that closed off the lobby. Billy thumbed the safety off the machine pistol and ran for the apartment door. The hallway was nearly completely black. The hallway windows let in the light from outside, but it was very little. He slowed and felt his way to the staircase. He sensed her before his hand brushed against her. Don't you fuckin' shoot me, Billy Jingo. Beth whispered tightly. A small penlight clicked on and he could see her leaning against the wall from the upstairs apartment. No, Billy said. It was stupid, but he could think of nothing else to say. Going down, he told her. He made the stairs and headed down toward the lobby. Behind him Beth had turned out the light, but he could feel her following behind him. The noise became louder as they made their way downward. Billy tried to count the steps as he went. Fifteen to the landing, turn to the right, feel for the banister. Fifteen more to the bottom, but he missed the last step. He had made himself count the steps just earlier that day in case he had to navigate them in the blackness. He nearly fell before his foot found the floor and he regained his balance. He could smell them now though, hear them. Just fifteen or so feet across the lobby. He felt Beth’s hand brush against his back. A second later she pressed up against him and whispered in his ear. When I flick the light on them, just shoot! But what if... Fuck What if... Just shoot. Who do you think it would be, the fuckin' Avon lady? Silence fell. The noise stopped. Goddammit, Beth muttered. A second later the penlight came on. It was like a floodlight in the narrow hallway. The gate was broken, forced part way open at the top. Another few minutes and they would have been through. Six dead were transfixed by the beam. Two with iridescent red eyes that seemed to glow in the light from the penlight. Both snarled and lunged at the gate to force their way through to them. His pistol was in his hands, but it was like the beam had frozen him too. He did not begin to fire until after Beth's pistol began to fire. The noise was huge. Everything in the closed in space. All six of the dead fell and they thrashed on the floor. It was over fast. So fast that Billy had not even thought to breath. He stood frozen, looking at the dead. Two still moved. He walked forward and shot both of them in the head, one by one. The beam left them and moved to the doorway. The aluminum door frame was buckled in the doorway. The safety glass had been smashed out and lay on the floor in one spider webbed sheet. Two heavy sledge hammers lay just outside the doorway. Another three were scattered among the dead by the steel gate. Son of a bitch, Beth breathed. Jesus. You don't think they were using those, do you? Are you fuckin' kidding me? Beth asked. She shone the light up and down the door frame. We'll need a steel door and a welder to fix that, She said. Billy nodded, realized she couldn't see it, and then spoke. We can get one tomorrow. She brushed against him as she squeezed past and walked toward the gate. His arm felt on fire from the softness of her breast as she had slipped past him. She turned and looked back at him. They almost got in. She shone the light on the steel collapsible burglar door. It had been there for as long as she could remember, and she had lived in the building for several years. The top was nearly separated from the steel bracket that held the hinge mechanism. Billy got his feet moving, walked over and examined the top of the door. They had hit it with the sledge hammer repeatedly. The steel had finally split, and it looked as though they had been trying to use sheer force to rip the rest of the bracket away from the wall where it was mounted. Billy stepped back. I think, he began, and that was when a zombie came through the shattered aluminum door frame and slammed into the steel gate. Fingers shot through the gaps in the steel and clutched at Billy's arm. The Zombie missed the arm, but got his shirt sleeve and immediately snarled and began to pull back. It lasted less than a full second before Beth’s pistol roared. The zombie's head blew apart in the narrow hallway, black zombie blood running down the walls. Got you? Got you? Beth asked. No... No... No, I … Billy couldn't find the words. Something moved outside the door, and he opened up on it. A second later there were four more Zombies flooding through the door. None of them made it to the gate, tripping over the other dead, and both Billy and Beth were firing immediately. One made it back out the door, a hole in its side that had blown away part of its spine as it had exited. Billy could not believe it was still able to move, but it was. Canted to one side, legs twitching as it ran, causing it to lurch from side to side. It disappeared into the darkness before either of them could get another shot in. The silence came back full. You have got to get your shit together, Beth said quietly. I got my shit together, Billy shot back. You never saw that one coming through the door. What if I hadn't shot it... Well, fuck, if you hadn't... Never mind... Okay... I'll get my shit together. She said nothing. Okay... Okay... Does us no good to get on each other... None at all... We can fix this tomorrow. He looked around the lobby. Help me for a moment? he asked. He headed for a length of chain they had bought back to use for something. It was about to be re-purposed, he thought. As Beth held the light he wound the chain through the separated sections of the gate, pulled it tight and ran a short length of nylon rope through the eyes, tying it tightly. He stepped back and looked it over. It would have to do until morning, her flashlight was already flickering, causing shadows to jump and fall on the walls. Batteries were getting tougher and tougher to find. He looked at his wrist and cursed low. Old habits died hard. Watches were worthless now. He hadn't worn one in a few days. I don't know either... I think a few hours until dawn, Beth said. That should hold for a few hours, at least slow them down enough to shoot them if they do try to get through it. Well, I'll sit here and wait for it... All we can do, Billy said. Go on back up and get some sleep. I got this. He settled back onto the step, sitting with his back to the upstairs. Beth stayed silent for a moment and then came and sat next to him. Got it with you, she said. She sat next to him, and he immediately lost his words. Her arm pressed against his own. The flashlight snapped off, and the heat of her arm became everything. Billy? His name whispered from the upstairs hallway: Jamie. I'm here until daybreak, Billy whispered back. Silence. And then... It's safe? They won't get past us, Billy said.

Chapter 1: Nightfall

The air hung thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket woven from dust and decay. The only sounds were the faint, rhythmic creaks of their makeshift barricade and the erratic thump-thump-thump of Billy’s own heart against his ribs. Outside, the city breathed its last gasps, a symphony of rusting metal and crumbling concrete, punctuated by the occasional, chilling moan that spoke of death and decay. Inside their fortified apartment, Billy and Beth sat poised, their senses honed to a razor’s edge, waiting. Waiting for the inevitable.

Their apartment, a small, second-floor unit in what was once a bustling Los Angeles high-rise, had become their sanctuary, their fortress against the relentless tide of the infected. Months of scavenging, sweat, and ingenuity had transformed it from a cramped living space into a surprisingly resilient stronghold. Boarded-up windows, reinforced doors, and a makeshift barricade crafted from salvaged furniture and metal scraps guarded their only entrance. A crudely fashioned alarm system, consisting of strung fishing line and empty cans, added a layer of rudimentary warning. But even this carefully constructed defense felt fragile, a thin veneer against the encroaching horror.

Beth, her face pale but resolute, checked the meager supply of scavenged weapons scattered around the room. A rusty pipe, a makeshift spear fashioned from a broken broom handle, and a battered baseball bat – not exactly the arsenal of a seasoned warrior, but the best they could muster in a world gone to hell. Billy, his eyes scanning the shadows beyond the barricaded doorway, ran a hand over the worn leather of his makeshift holster, its single, precious bullet a silent promise of a last desperate stand.

The silence stretched, a taut string threatening to snap. Then, it came.

Not a gradual increase in the distant moans, not a warning shuffle of infected feet, but a sudden, brutal assault. A ferocious crash ripped through the silence as something massive slammed against their barricade, followed by a chorus of guttural snarls and the sickening crunch of wood splintering under immense force. The apartment shook, the air vibrating with the sheer force of the attack.

The cans on their alarm system clattered to the floor, a shrill metallic shriek that instantly pierced the chilling silence. Beth let out a short, sharp gasp, her hand instinctively reaching for the rusty pipe. Billy drew his makeshift weapon, his muscles tense, his eyes burning with a fierce, desperate resolve.

The assault was relentless. The infected, creatures once human, now twisted parodies of their former selves, threw their decomposing bodies against the barricade with terrifying strength. Their decaying flesh and exposed bones, gruesome testaments to the brutal nature of the apocalypse, were a sickening sight. The sounds of their desperate scrabbling, their guttural roars, and the sickening thud of their bodies against the barricade were a cacophony of horror.

Billy and Beth fought back with the ferocity of cornered animals. Billy, lean and agile, used his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat – honed during his years in the army before the world ended – to strike with deadly precision. He aimed for weak points, exploiting gaps in the infected’s decaying armor. Beth, smaller but no less determined, fought with a raw, primal fury, her pipe a deadly extension of her rage. She swung with brutal efficiency, each strike a desperate attempt to ward off the relentless horde.

The stench of death and decay hung heavy in the air, a sickening perfume to this brutal ballet of survival. The air filled with the sound of crunching bone, the guttural roars of the infected, and the harsh gasps of Billy and Beth as they fought for their lives. Sweat poured down their faces, mingling with dust and grime. Their muscles screamed in protest, but they fought on, driven by an instinct for survival that outweighed the burning pain.

The infected, fueled by an insatiable hunger, swarmed their barricade like a tide of rotting flesh. They clawed at the wood, their decaying fingernails scraping against the surface, their rotting teeth gnashing in silent, hungry rage. Each infected was a macabre puppet, driven by an inhuman force beyond their own shattered consciousness. Billy and Beth, outnumbered and outmatched, fought with a desperate courage born of necessity, fueled by the primal instinct for self-preservation.

The first wave subsided, leaving a trail of shattered wood and decaying limbs in its wake. But the barricade was significantly weaker, a gaping hole marring its surface, a testament to the savage ferocity of the attack. The damage was a stark reminder of their vulnerability, the fragility of their carefully constructed defenses. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon them, both physically and emotionally. The brutal fight had left them drained, their bodies aching, their minds reeling from the horror they had witnessed.

The silence that followed was worse than the relentless attack. It was a silence pregnant with dread, a silence that promised more violence, more suffering. The damaged barricade was a gaping wound, a stark reminder of how close they had come to oblivion. The gruesome aftermath of their desperate battle lay scattered around them – torn scraps of flesh, broken bones, and the stench of death hanging heavy in the air. They stood there, two figures silhouetted against the flickering light of a dying candle, their breath ragged, their bodies trembling. The first attack had been repulsed, but the fragile peace was only a temporary reprieve. The night was far from over, and the horrors to come were still lurking in the shadows. The fight for survival had just begun, and the price of survival was measured in blood, sweat, and a growing sense of dread. The dawn, when it arrived, promised no solace; only the chilling certainty of more to come.

The rusty pipe felt slick with sweat and something else… something viscous and cold that clung to the metal like a second skin. Beth swung it again, a desperate arc that connected with a sickening thud against the skull of an infected, sending its decaying head spinning. The creature’s body, already a grotesque parody of humanity, crumpled to the floor with a wet, meaty sound. The smell – a nauseating blend of rot and decay – was almost unbearable, clinging to the back of her throat and making her stomach churn.

Billy, meanwhile, moved like a wraith. Years of military training, honed to a razor’s edge by the brutal realities of their world, allowed him to navigate the chaos with a deadly efficiency. He weaved between the flailing limbs of the infected, his movements economical, precise. The makeshift spear, crafted from a broken broom handle and sharpened to a brutal point, found its mark time and again, piercing the rotting flesh with surprising ease. Each thrust was accompanied by a muffled groan, a wet squelch, and the satisfying thud of another creature falling to the ground.

The sounds of the battle were a horrifying symphony. The splintering of wood, the sickening crunch of bone, the guttural moans and snarls of the infected, punctuated by Beth’s ragged gasps and Billy’s grunts of exertion – all blended into a cacophony of violence that filled the small apartment. The air vibrated with the sheer force of the assault, a tangible wave of horror that seemed to press down upon them, suffocating them with its intensity.

The infected were relentless, their decaying bodies surging forward in waves, driven by an insatiable hunger that transcended reason and logic. Their eyes, devoid of life yet burning with a malevolent hunger, were terrifying in their emptiness. Their skin, where it still existed, hung in tattered strips, revealing the grotesque patchwork of bone and muscle beneath. Their movements were jerky, spasmodic, yet undeniably powerful, each lunge a desperate attempt to breach their defenses. They clawed at the barricade, their decaying fingernails scraping against the wood, leaving trails of grime and putrid ichor. Their rotting teeth gnashed in a silent, hungry rage, a terrifying testament to the brutal hunger that consumed them.

Billy found himself battling an infected that was larger than the others, its body grotesquely swollen and bloated. The creature’s strength was immense, its blows sending tremors through the already damaged barricade. Billy parried its attack with his spear, feeling the impact jolt through his arms. He dodged a desperate lunge, the decaying flesh brushing against his cheek, leaving a trail of cold, wetness. He retaliated with a vicious thrust, the spear finding its mark in the creature’s side, eliciting a high-pitched shriek that seemed to tear through the air.

Beth fought with a primal fury that surprised even herself. She had never been one for violence, but the desperation of their situation had stripped away any hesitation. She moved with a fierce determination, each swing of the pipe fueled by adrenaline and a burning need to survive. She felt the impact of each blow – the sickening thud of bone on pipe, the resistance of rotting flesh – and with each strike, a surge of power flowed through her, allowing her to fight beyond the limits of her own strength.

Dust motes danced in the weak candlelight, illuminating the scene in a ghastly, flickering glow. Sweat stung their eyes, mingling with the grime and dust that coated their bodies. Their muscles screamed in protest, their lungs burned with each ragged breath. Yet, they fought on, their bodies driven by a desperate, primal instinct that outweighed pain, exhaustion, and fear. They were trapped, cornered, and yet, they held their ground.

The battle raged for what felt like an eternity. Each moment was a desperate struggle for survival, a fight against overwhelming odds. They fought not just for themselves, but for a shared future, a future they clung to with every fiber of their being. The bond between them, forged in the crucible of this horrifying night, deepened with every shared struggle, every near-miss escape. They relied on each other instinctively, their movements complementing each other, a testament to the silent understanding that had developed between them.

The wave receded, leaving behind a scene of carnage. The floor was littered with the remains of the infected – decaying limbs, shattered bones, and a lingering stench that hung heavy in the air. The barricade was a ruin, a testament to the ferocity of the assault. Gaping holes marred the structure, revealing the vulnerability of their position. The apartment was a mess, strewn with shattered wood, overturned furniture, and the grim souvenirs of their brutal struggle.

Billy and Beth collapsed against the remaining barricade, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. Their breath came in ragged gasps, their lungs burning. They were alive, but battered and bruised, both physically and emotionally. The silence that followed was thick, heavy, oppressive. The only sounds were the rhythmic thumping of their own hearts, a stark counterpoint to the silence that had reigned before the attack.

The silence was even more terrifying than the onslaught. It wasn’t the silence of peace; it was the silence before the storm, a terrifying lull that promised further violence. The respite was temporary. The night was far from over. The damaged barricade stood as a testament to their survival, but it was also a chilling reminder of how fragile that survival truly was. They had won this battle, but the war was far from over. The dawn would bring new challenges, new threats, and the ever-present shadow of their own mortality. They were exhausted, wounded, and yet, somehow, they felt a strange, fragile sense of hope. They had survived the night, and in that survival, they found a strength they didn’t know they possessed. Their love, their bond, and their shared will to survive were the only things that stood between them and oblivion. They would rebuild, they would repair, and they would face whatever horrors the coming dawn might bring. Together.

The pressure mounted, relentless and suffocating. The initial wave had been brutal, a chaotic maelstrom of rotting flesh and desperate claws, but this… this was different. This was a sustained assault, a grinding siege that chipped away at their resolve with each agonizing second. The rhythmic pounding against their barricade had intensified, a relentless drumbeat that vibrated through their bones. Billy, his arms aching with a dull, throbbing pain, felt a sickening crack beneath his feet. He looked down to see a section of the wooden floor giving way under the combined weight of the relentless assault and the decaying bodies piled against it. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through his exhaustion.

Beth, her face streaked with grime and sweat, let out a choked cry as a section of the barricade, already weakened by the earlier onslaught, splintered and buckled under the weight of a particularly massive infected. A gaping hole appeared, a gaping maw in their defenses, inviting the horde to pour through. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted to Billy, a silent plea for help mirrored in his own haunted gaze. The air hung thick with the stench of decay, the putrid odor of death clinging to their clothes, their skin, their very souls.

The psychological toll of the battle was as brutal as the physical one. The constant threat, the relentless pressure, the ever-present awareness of their own mortality – it gnawed at their minds, chipping away at their resolve. Fear, cold and clammy, gripped their hearts, threatening to paralyze them. They fought it, pushed it back, but it was a constant, exhausting struggle. Each groan, each shriek from the infected, each splintering piece of wood, served as a constant reminder of their precarious situation. Sleep deprivation added to their mounting despair, blurring the lines between reality and hallucination. They were trapped, not just physically in their apartment, but mentally in a cage of fear and exhaustion.

The infected surged through the gap in the barricade, a torrent of decaying flesh and broken bones. Their moans and growls became a terrifying chorus, a symphony of death that threatened to swallow them whole. Billy, spurred by adrenaline and desperation, fought with a primal fury, his spear a blur of motion. Each thrust was a desperate gamble, a desperate attempt to buy them precious seconds. He moved instinctively, years of training kicking in, guiding his hands with a deadly precision born of necessity.

Beth, armed with nothing more than a rusty pipe, fought with the desperate courage of a cornered animal. She moved with a ferocious energy, a whirlwind of rage and fear. Her strikes were less precise than Billy’s, but they were brutal, fueled by a raw, primal energy that propelled her beyond her physical limits. The pipe connected with the rotting flesh of the infected, sending sickening thuds echoing through the apartment. Yet the wave was relentless. It ebbed and flowed, pushing, pulling, testing the limits of their endurance.

The infected swarmed them, their decaying bodies pressing in from all sides. Billy found himself surrounded, the pungent smell of their rot nauseating. He fought back-to-back with Beth, their movements fluid, their combined efforts a desperate, chaotic dance of survival. They fought not only with weapons, but with their bodies, using their combined weight to shove the infected back, to buy them a moment, a breath.

Their apartment, once a sanctuary, was transformed into a battleground. The floor was slippery with blood and ichor, the air thick with the stench of death. The walls were scarred with claw marks, testaments to the relentless assault. The furniture was broken, twisted into grotesque shapes by the weight of the battle. Their sanctuary was a ruin, a reflection of the chaos that consumed them.

The struggle was a blur of motion, a kaleidoscope of violence and fear. Every second was a fight for survival, a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable. They stumbled, they fell, they rose again, their bodies screaming in protest. They were running on fumes, on adrenaline, on sheer will. The hope that had flickered earlier, a fragile ember in the darkness, threatened to be extinguished by the sheer weight of their predicament.

Just as their defenses seemed to crumble completely, just as they felt the cold grip of despair tighten around their hearts, a sudden, unexpected lull descended. The pressure eased. The relentless onslaught, the incessant wave of rotting bodies, stopped. A tense, uneasy silence filled the air, broken only by the ragged gasps for air and the thudding of their own hearts, a symphony of exhaustion and fear. They were alive, but only just. They had survived another wave, but the victory felt hollow, fragile, fleeting. The silence was more terrifying than the assault itself – a grim prelude to the next