Zombie Origins

By J Gerard Michaels

This book is a compilation of the first 7 episodes of The Cord Wheaton Saga, a zombie series that begins with the origin of the problem, and draws St. Petersburg detective Cord Wheaton into an area of crime-fighting he had not expected when he joined the force. Filled with humor, social commentary, horror, romance, and of course, zombies, follow our hero as he tries to convince those around him that there is a problem, and that it's getting worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Gerard Michaels
• Release date: Jun 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781939181527

J Gerard Michaels

J Gerard Michaels writes zombie stories from Florida, where he has no shortage of inspiration. The Cord Wheaton Saga, is a zombie series that begins with the discovery of the first zombie, involving a St. Pete police detective who learns his true calling in life (to prevent an apocalypse) as he works to uncover the source and who, if anyone, is behind the growing threat.

Book preview

Part 1: The Undead Candidate

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Chapter 1

Sergeant Jackson sauntered over, a big smile creasing his face.

Well, well, congratulations, Wheaton, he said, then laughed.

Cord Wheaton looked up from his desk. I was going to say thanks, but obviously you don’t mean it.

Oh, I do, I do, Jackson said through his laughter.

Then what’s so funny?

Nothing, just congrats on making detective. Captain wants to see you.

Wheaton rose, kept his eye on Jackson as he walked to the captain’s office.

Jackson said you wanted to see me?

The captain motioned to a chair across from him. Welcome aboard, Detective. He extended a hand, and Cord shook it.

As you know, we have a low homicide rate.

Yes sir.

So you’re probably wondering what we do here in homicide and vice when it gets all quiet.

Just learning the ropes, sir.

Good, glad to hear it. I’ve got an assignment for you.

Cord leaned forward. First day on the job and already he was getting an assignment. Not following along with someone else. Not becoming one half of some crazy duo like Starsky and Hutch or The Other Guys. Not sitting at his desk going over procedure manuals. A real assignment. Yes?

The captain leaned forward, one elbow on his desk. You’re providing security for Jenny Leonard.

Cord blinked. Who?

The convention coming to town, at the Palladium.

Convention? I thought the RNC one ended in August.

It did. Everybody’s got their ticket now, Repubs and Dems alike. I don’t care who you vote for, Wheaton. It’s none of my business. But there’s another political party in town tomorrow.

Another one?

Yeah, and they open tonight. You did so well back in August in the Event Zone, that’s part of the reason you were promoted.

Cord shook his head. I didn’t realize there was another party.

Kind of took me by surprise, too. I mean, I know of the Libertarians and the Greens. They’re always around and always inconsequential. This one’s different. New. I think it’s just a fad, but that’s not my business either. We’re here to keep St. Pete safe, to protect both inhabitants and visitors.

Cord slumped back, his energy and excitement drained from the disappointment. A political rally. Hadn’t he done enough in August? Why repeat the same thing again? So, what’s the party?

They call themselves the Undead Party. Mostly younger kids I think. Might not even be real, but they’ve rented the Palladium for the next several days. Papers seem legit. The captain shrugged. Weren’t you dating a college girl? You might understand them better than some of the older guys.

Cord felt his face grow hot. He hated blushing, but couldn’t control it. How’d the captain know about his dating? Had he talked too much? Oh shit. We broke up last month.

Well, talk to Miss Leonard, the captain continued. You’re a detective now, and you’re not going to be in uniform. They want a quiet presence.

A quiet presence? What did that mean? Was he going undercover?

I thought the theater was owned by the college, Cord said.

It is.

And there was no outcry about favoring one party over another?

Apparently not.

It starts tonight?

Yeah, that’s the strange thing. It’s only at night. Runs from nine to midnight. We’re setting up a perimeter, but it will be several blocks away. You’ll be inside. Here’s Miss Leonard’s number.

* * *

Cord drummed his fingers on the table at JoJo’s in Citta, waiting for Miss Jenny Leonard. She was fifteen minutes late, the convention was starting in two hours, and he was hungry. He sipped his water, waved off the waiter again. What a waste of time this was shaping up to be. Maybe he would have been better off being Starsky.

A woman strode into the dark room. All business. All legs. No college kid. Maybe he should stop in at JoJo’s more often. Wait—he was working tonight; what was he thinking?

She sat down at his table.

He was thinking he was pretty damn lucky, unless Miss Leonard chose to show up. He raised his eyebrows, gave her his half-seductive look.

Detective Wheaton? she asked.

She knew his name. His eyebrows fell. Back to work.

Miss Leonard?

Call me Jenny, please. We don’t have much time and I need to be at the convention at least a half hour early.

Cord nodded, thought about her hectic pace and her timing and kept his mouth shut.

Can I buy you something? she asked. Or is that inappropriate?

It’s against procedure, but thanks. Cord took another sip, no longer interested in food. She was late, but still, she was hot. Maybe he’d cut her some slack.

So, tell me about this convention, he said.

We’re a new independent party. Two night convention. Tonight’s speeches are for party platform approval and some other boring tasks that we have to get out of the way. Tomorrow’s the big night, when our candidate accepts the presidential nomination.

Cord was unsuccessful at suppressing a grin. And you really call yourselves the Undead Party? He sipped his water. This some college thing?

Jenny ordered an appetizer and a beer, then leaned in and focused on Cord, her eyes boring holes into him. College thing? This is serious, detective. If you don’t treat it that way, I’ll ask for someone else.

Cord shook his head. He liked her eyes. They had a fire in them he could see even in the dark room. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to treat it lightly, it’s just—what, you guys are nominating a zombie for president?

She pulled out a cigarette. We don’t use the term zombie.

There’s no smoking in here, Cord said.

It’s derogatory, Jenny continued, putting the cigarette away. They are the undead. There’s a fine distinction. They’re not zombies, with no feelings or ambitions. Think of it as coming out of retirement. They’re back, and they’re pissed off at how the government’s being run.

Would you say they lean more Republican or Democrat?

They like them both. Republicans for breakfast. Democrats for dinner.

* * *

Cord strolled up the sidewalk outside the Palladium. October wasn’t muggy like August, and living near downtown gave him the opportunity to wander around the city and get to know it at a deeper level. He knew where the homeless hung out, recognized some of them by their faces. He was getting to know some of the people who worked late and lived downtown, too.

But where was the perimeter? On his way over he hadn’t come across any police presence. Hadn’t even spotted a cruiser on the street. No barricades or fences.

He couldn’t recall seeing any signs or notices for the convention. And there weren’t any banners hanging outside the theater, nothing announcing that anything was even going on here.

Where did they advertise? In funeral homes? At cemeteries? Would it really be attended by a bunch of zom—undead? Jenny wasn’t a zombie; though she might as well be, as well as their first meeting went. After the college kid remark she had definitely gone cold. He hoped she wasn’t as flighty as his last girlfriend.

Mr. Wheaton.

Cord turned at the sound of his name, the name he had instructed Jenny to call him. Yes, ma’am.

She smirked at the formality, little dimples punctuating her cheeks. We’re just about ready to start if you want to come inside.

Ready to start? He hadn’t seen anyone approach the building. He shuffled up the front steps of the theater. He did like the way she smiled, though. Seemed to light that fire in her eyes. And the way her cheeks…

Just wait in back for me, Jenny said, breaking his reverie. You can come in and watch. I’ll be up on stage most of the time. The door closed behind her before he could say anything.

* * *

The room was dark save the two spotlights aimed at the stage. Cord’s eyes adjusted as he scanned the room. The place was packed. When did they get here? Should he have been watching the place earlier? Was it Jenny? Did she intentionally distract him? She was distracting, all right. Alluring. Enchanting. But those weren’t words he normally used. Smoking. Hot. No, more like fire and ice. Yeah, that described her.

Jenny walked out on stage wearing a low-cut, strapless, shiny black dress with a necklace that glittered in the light, and tapped the microphone, then blew into it.

Cord caught his breath. Stunning. That was the word. She must have changed in back. The necklace hung like a halo under her head, lighting up her face.

I want to welcome everyone, she said, to the first national convention of the Undead Party!

Her voice rose in excitement at the end, but the response in return surprised Cord. It sounded like gurgling and growling, interspersed with clapping, like an old car sputtering down the street in bad need of a tuneup. He stared but realized it was futile; he was only looking at the backs of heads. He moved down a side aisle to the first column, using that to hide himself from the crowd.

He looked back and up. The balcony was empty. He peered around and scanned the faces nearest him.

One of them turned and stared.

Cord’s neck hairs jumped to attention. He spun back behind the column.

Oh my god! That face looked…gross! The eyes. Dead. And what did he have in his hands? A bowl? Was he eating out of it? Did he see me?

Cord ran to the back, stopped at the exit. Wait a minute. You’re a detective. Come on, get a grip. He turned around. No one had gotten out of their seats.

He looked up at Jenny. Someone was with her on stage. A man. She moved away from the mic, he cleared his throat, too. Why did people do that? Didn’t the guy hear her talk? The mic works, just use it!

Tonight is a historic occasion. All of you are part of history-in-the-making. In the future, when someone asks you, ‘Where were you on the night of October seventh?’ you’ll be able to say, those of you that can speak, ‘I was at the inaugural Undead National Convention.’

Cord heard the familiar growl, arrgh-arrgh. It reminded him of the star of Home Improvement, a TV show he watched as a kid.

And Zach Taylor, the man on stage continued, will make history as our first Undead President!

More rising excitement in his voice, more growls from the audience.

Cord shook his head. He hated politics, especially the brazen and ridiculous promises made during conventions. But the image of the man he saw sitting in that row kept him riveted to the proceedings. Jenny seemed normal. So did the man speaking. Where were the other normal people?

The speaker turned toward the side of the stage and Cord’s eyes turned in the same direction. Two people emerged from behind the curtain.

A tingle ran down Cord’s spine. What the hell! His jaw dropped open. He kept his gaze on them. One man held a heavy chain that connected to a collar on the other man. The man holding the chain led the collared man toward the mic; like a dog, Cord thought. Reminded him of a Jet Li film.

The master, as Cord considered him, spoke.

Ladies and gentlemen, delegates and handlers, accepting the nomination for vice-president, I present to you Bat Skitman!

Cord looked around at the exits. Was he the only detective here? The crowd wasn’t large, but a bigger presence would have been reassuring. The captain hadn’t mentioned anyone else. And what did that guy mean about ‘handlers’? He moved closer to the back row, but not right up where they might sense him standing there.

Cord blew out a quiet whew. Half the people were wearing collars. Every other person. He looked down the row at one of the people without a collar. It was dark, but he could just make out a normal face. He thought of the TV series The Walking Dead. No, this one would be called Walking the Dead. Or maybe, Man’s New Best Friend.

Tonight, Jenny announced, breaking Cord’s train of thought, we introduce our party platform. Bat will go over all the planks that we as a party agree on.

Bat’s handler stepped to the mic again. So Jenny was wrong, technically. Bat wasn’t going to say anything. At least nothing intelligible. His handler was going to do all the talking. He stifled a laugh. This had to be some college prank.

Our first plank, Bat’s handler said, addresses the issue of equality.

Bat gurgled his approval and raised an arm, flexing his fingers like he was squeezing a melon.

We believe that all humans are created equal and deserve legal status that removes all hint of discrimination. We favor no brain over another.

A loud slurping noise permeated the theater, the intermingled applause creating the effect of rain on slush.

Cord laughed to himself.

Our second plank, the man said, addresses the issue of health care. He waited for Bat to raise and lower his arm, with the obligatory squeezing in between. We believe that all healthy citizens are entitled to donate their brains to the UNC upon death, and that those with diseased brains are entitled to be studied by the living, so that cures may be found.

Cord wanted to get a closer look at some of the collared ones. These guys were really into playing their parts.

Our third plank concerns the defense and protection of the brain. It relates to health care, but our feeling is so strong in this area, we want to highlight it in a separate plank. He paused and motioned with his hands for quiet.

Cord realized the gurgling had become louder than just background noise.

We hereby declare football, boxing, war, and other endeavors that injure the brain to be unlawful and unjust, and call for an end to all such activities.

The growls rose to a thunderous volume, the clapping a machine-gun staccato that hurt Cord’s ears. He covered his ears and backed to the exit, watching Bat and his handler leave the stage.

Several other handlers spoke while holding onto their undead, but Cord wasn’t interested in the protocols, procedures, and proclamations of these people. He studied the crowd, walking from one side to the other, sometimes venturing down an aisle and peeking around a column to get a better look. None of them paid him any attention, their eyes fixed on the people on stage. If this was a joke, they were sure playing along well. And if they didn’t realize he was here, who were they playing it for?

He positioned himself centered along the back wall and watched Jenny reclaim the mic and thank everyone for coming. She promised them more history the following night.

The show was over. Cord left, stumbled down the steps and turned to look at the theater. He would talk to someone when they left, find out what the real story was.

No one came out. He looked around; hoped to see some of his fellow officers, even though he knew their perimeter was out of sight. He checked his phone. Eleven o’clock. Where’d the time go? At least the meeting ended early. He’d have time to—no; he promised he’d give up drinking. Maybe he’d have time to take Jenny out, maybe start over with her.

Mr. Wheaton, Jenny said, coming down the steps.

His heart quickened. He watched her walk like a model on a runway, even though she had already changed out of her evening dress.

Get a hold of yourself. You hardly know her. You don’t know her. He smiled. Want to get a drink? Coffee?

I’m sorry, not tonight. We’ve got a bigger night tomorrow and I’ve got to rest up. She slipped her arm in his. So, what do you think? We got a chance?

Cord felt her hand on his arm, a surge of warmth touching his heart. Excuse me?

I said, she said with a touch of a smile, do you think Zach has a chance? To be president?

I’d never heard of him before tonight. Is he even on any ballots?

He’s going as a write-in. It’s too late to get signatures, and anyway, most of them would probably be disqualified.

And he won’t be participating in the debates, either.

No, Jenny said, shaking her head. You can imagine they wouldn’t want that. They keep all the other minority parties out, they’d keep us out.

Haven’t they started including them in the early primary season?

For someone who hates politics, you sure seem to know a lot.

Cord laughed. "No, not really. I mean,