Party Apocalypse

By D.M. Draper

Retired biker, Marshal Bailey, was looking for redemption from a self-ruined past. After serving a prison sentence, he found his calling as a children’s entertainer. As a birthday clown, he enjoyed moderate success and was slowly piecing his life together, until a zombie outbreak struck the city.
After getting bit by a girl at a coffee shop, and disfigured in a horrible motorcycle accident, he awakes to discover that not only is he dead, he has somehow retained the ability to think. A doctor informs him that he may hold the antidote for the undead epidemic. While trying to escape the city being contained by a mysterious militant force, he rescues a girl that reminds him of his long deceased daughter.
Joining ranks with a loose-knit group of survivors from conflicting social and ideological backgrounds — including a psychic, a conspiracy theorist, and a few prostitutes— he must find a way out of the city; if not for the sake of the girl in his custody, to provide a cure for a world gone awry. At the same time, he finds that his conscious mind is deteriorating as the virus slowly transforms him into a flesh-craving cannibal. Will he make it out before he turns?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.M. Draper
• Release date: Dec 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311208309

D.M. Draper

D.M. Draper is an American living abroad in the bowels of the Middle Kingdom. After graduating with a degree in International Business from Temple University, the author moved to the East and started writing fiction. He lives alone on a college campus where he teaches the nuances of the English language, studies Mandarin, and plays too many video games.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Could it really have been an elaborate fraud? Could he really have lost his company millions right after he and his wife had just splurged and spent more money than they would reasonably see in their lifetimes? He'd told some of his most cherished clients to buy stock in this glorious start-up, and not more than a couple weeks later, Volodex, Inc. was smoke. All the letters above the door were missing, leaving rust-stained imprints where they used to be. Even the window decals had been torn away, with an Office Space for Rent sign hanging on the door. After an awkward confrontation with the property manager, George phoned his boss, the broker for the firm.

This is Eli White, American Sun Securities.

Eli, George said, you have no idea how elaborate this thing is.

His boss sounded a little too pleased to hear from him. George! he said. Hold on just one second as I switch phones. Pardon me, gentlemen.

After a click, Eli said softly, George, where the hell are you?

I'm at Volodex Labs.

"Oh, really? Well, as it happens, I've got cops in my office, George. You know how much I enjoy their special visits. They would really like a chance to talk with you, if you're not too busy."

The sarcasm behind the courtesy was quite palpable; it made George's stomach turn. He used his key fob to unlock his car and got inside. Eli, the Volodex office is completely gone. They've torn everything down, removed every little thing.

Yeah, they really thought this through, didn't they?

Someone with a very pale pair of arms suddenly struck George's driver-side window. It was a sickly, bearded man wearing a ball cap and a Devil's jersey. George started his car and cracked the window to shout, What the fuck? I don't have any extra change, okay? I'm sorry.

Just one second, George told Eli after switching to speakerphone. He backed out of the parking space a little too fast and nearly hit someone. Turning around in the seat, he could see there was something very wrong with the young professional behind his car. The guy had a strange gait, as though he was intoxicated and a little too eager to sell him something. How did these cretins get into the complex? When he saw the bearded vagrant approaching, he hit the gas and sped toward the front gate.

Anyway, George said, I just paid a visit to property management, and they want to pretend they'd never even heard of Volodex. That's their plan; just play dumb—he looked both ways before merging into traffic—I nearly beat the shit out of the guy.

Look, George; we've been ripped off, that's a fact, but we've got way bigger problems than that.

What do you mean?

There was a long pause before Eli said, I can't believe I'm seeing this… Uh, sorry, George, just get here as soon as you can, and hung up.

George looked at his phone with puzzlement before setting it in the passenger seat. What did he mean they had bigger problems? What else could possibly go wrong?

So there he was, sitting in the middle of Monday morning traffic, waiting to pay at the tollbooth. When he was close enough, he saw the faded sign reminding drivers that the toll was seven dollars. He pulled his wallet out of his jacket and sorted through it, only to find the smallest bill he had was a ten.

"God dammit," he said, before hitting his turn signal. The staffed booths were to the right, and it took him nearly ten minutes to switch lanes amid the pissed-off honks and shouted insults from the other drivers. When he finally got through, he found one booth didn't even have a line and swerved into it, thinking that perhaps he'd gotten lucky. He could see someone was seated inside wearing a bright orange cap.

He rolled down his window. Hello, he called. Hello!

No response.

He held up his bill and laid on his horn. Hey, come on, let's go!

The woman inside stood up and wrapped her hands around George's arm. He instinctively tried to pull away, but the grip was firm. The next thing he felt was a blinding pain as something wet tore through his wrist. George cried out and dropped the money. He stamped his foot down on the gas pedal, sending his car through the boom barrier, which broke away with a sound snap.

He stopped the car. His wrist was dribbling blood, and the torn skin bore the shape of teeth. He checked his side mirror and saw the woman with the orange cap had emerged, wearing his blood on her purplish lips. He unlocked the door and was about to get out to confront her, but he held back. He saw other motorists staring at him from inside their vehicles, and one of them just shook his head like he knew something and was telling George to keep moving.

And that's what George did. He coasted into traffic, figuring he would need some kind of medical attention; the woman had nearly torn the flesh from the bone. He couldn't remember where he'd heard it but was certain that out of all the animals in God's kingdom, human bites were supposed to be the most dangerous. They contain the most harmful bacteria and can even pass on hepatitis B and C, herpes, syphilis. He hit the GPS on his dashboard and keyed in a request for the next hospital. The screen showed the closest facility to be fifteen minutes away.

Unfortunately, as he continued, the traffic got backed up again. Must have been an accident or something. He wiped the sweat from his brow and struggled to get his jacket off while wearing his seat belt. It wasn't impossible, but still a pain in the ass. He switched on his air conditioning, sending torrents of chilly air through the vents. He'd never felt the need to do that before, especially not in the middle of October. He wiped away the sweat that stung his eyes and became aware that his shirt was soaked through under his arms and down his chest.

The traffic thinned a little after the next couple exits, but George didn't know how much longer he would last. He heard a crackling sound in the distance and couldn't tell if it was a car backfiring or gunshots, but it was unusual. Then he heard something thunderous, like the rumble of an explosion emanating from the middle of the city. George exchanged glances with the other motorists nearby, and they too looked disturbed. He reached down and began fiddling with his radio to see if he could find any news reports.

…unclear as to the nature of the accidents, authorities are advising residents to stay indoors and keep your families secure until these issues have been resolved. Do not proceed to your place of work or business. Do not leave your home unnecessarily. And do not, under any circumstances, allow any strangers into your home. The mayor has yet to make official declaration, but we have just received word…

George heard helicopters, and he looked up through his sunroof just as two military choppers soared overhead. Apparently in a hurry, the rhythmic whooshing of their propellers quickly waned. George was drawn back to a stinging ache that twisted through his arm. He checked his wounded wrist; blood had formed a red stain down the sleeve and onto the trousers. The blood vessels down his forearm had turned a blackish blue, branching in various directions under his skin. A swell of sudden emotion brought tears to his eyes, distorting his view of the highway ahead.

What the fuck is all this? he muttered. He picked up his phone to give his wife, Bonnie, a call to see if she was okay. Bonnie's ring-back tone played in his ear, an insipid Katy Perry song that she liked so much. He was redirected to voice mail, so he hung up, and then wiped an icy sheet of perspiration from his face. All the sweat was failing to cool his fever, despite the frigid blow from the AC. George hit his signal to pull over while reaching for his phone to call an ambulance. Had he been paying attention, he would have seen that the GPS warned him to turn off at the next exit, but as it was, he was on the opposite side of the road.

Fuck, he said and slumped forward, his car still rolling with the cruise control on. His eyes lost focus on the cars passing on his left and all their vague self-importance.

A second later, George's heart stopped and he died.

He was still animated, but there was no rationalization left in whatever he had become. He had a strange sense of movement as he hovered over the surrounding terrain, and when he tried to get out of his seat, a strap across his chest and abdomen kept him stuck. After shifting his weight around and trying to get out, he was stunned by the woman driving in the car next to his. Just the sight of her was intoxicating. Her head looked delicious, like a giant Tootsie Roll pop infused with all the flavors of a Thanksgiving feast. The redness of her cheeks promised sumptuous pleasures he hadn't begun to imagine. She looked so vivacious, so… edible. He couldn't wait to sink his teeth in.

George's hand hit the steering wheel, causing the car to gradually merge lanes in the woman's direction. He growled and stretched out his arms, taunted by the living treat. His car smacked against hers, causing sparks from the grind of metal on metal, but he didn't notice. The woman looked upset, but no less tasty. She braked, causing George to inadvertently pull on his steering wheel. He swerved into the far lane before being struck by a diesel truck. At that speed, his car broke into a long skid across the road and flipped. It struck the ground once, twice, and then collided with a support column of an underpass before it spun around to face the direction of oncoming traffic.

It happened too fast for the driver behind George to react and the green Cruiser plowed right into him, squealing sideways out into the neighboring lane with a shattered windshield and deployed airbags. Another car then t-boned the Cruiser as a third tried to swerve around it. They both had cut their turns too sharp, and the side impact sent a splash of shattered glass across the street. By that time, George's car had been knocked back again and made another one-eighty to put him facing the right direction again.

Not much farther up the road, a woman had just told her daughter to fasten her seat belt. The sixteen year old was reclining in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dashboard, listening to her iPod.

Tiffany, you know it's unsafe. Put it on.

It's not like anything ever happens on this road, the girl said.

The girl's mother hadn't realized the car in front of her had already come to a full stop. A split second after looking back at the road, she drove right into it, the impact causing the two of them to flail forward. Tiffany was spit through the windshield like a watermelon seed. She flew up and hit the pavement with enough momentum to slide for twelve yards, leaving a trail of skin, blood, and hair along the way. The impact had already knocked her unconscious before the driver of a semi-truck unknowingly rolled over her. The wheels crushed the bones of her pelvis, snapped her spine and ribs, and squirt her intestines out through her abdomen.

Another driver saw the body on the road and tried to swerve. They struck a Caravan on the far side of the road, and it veered and flopped into a ditch. The car's engine was on fire before it connected with the fumes of the gas line. The explosion wasn't massive, but it did immolate the shrieking passengers inside the car. After the oncoming motorists were finally able to anticipate the traffic ahead, they slowed to a halt. Some tried to pull off the road to allow the wailing ambulances through, but it was too crowded. There were over thirty-seven cars in the pileup, containing more than twenty-three seriously injured and five deceased.

An EMT stepped up to George's car and bent down to take a look. After forty minutes of struggling, George had closed his eyes and stopped moving.

So, you think this is the sucker who started it all? the EMT said to someone.

The man tried the handle of the driver side door and found it unlocked. It was stuck at first, but after a little effort, it creaked open.

Is he still breathing? someone asked.

Not sure, the EMT answered. He placed his thumb under George's neck to feel for a pulse and leaned down to listen for his respiration. He unfastened George's seatbelt.

To George, the man's perspiration smelled like pumpkin pie and cinnamon. George opened his eyes and closed his teeth on the man's ear; the EMT howled. George bit harder and harder until the top of the man's ear came off in his mouth. The EMT landed back on the road and reached up to wipe the blood from the side of his face.

The son of a bitch bit me! Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, my ear! he wailed as he staggered away.

George emerged from his car, chewing the new morsel. It tasted like the candied skin of a caramel apple. He peered up as a black helicopter swept overhead, pivoting in the direction of the commercial district. Columns of smoke rose from the city while distant gunshots crackled in the moist air. Cries of distress went up all along the highway as animated bodies rustled around him, enticing his appetite. First things first… George trudged toward the EMT he'd bitten, eager to get another taste.

PART 1

Chapter 1

Melody ate a bowl of Fruit Loops while she watched her favorite cartoons on her mother's tablet computer. She had her math worksheets out on the kitchen table and was occasionally checking her answers during commercials. She could hear her mother and her boyfriend down the hall, energetically getting ready for the new day. Her teenage sister, Tiffany, was still asleep, but she knew very soon their mother would come out and yell at her to get the hell out of bed; that was the daily ritual, after all.

She had just put another spoonful in her mouth when she heard shouting coming from outside the house. She stopped chewing and swallowed so she could hear. It was the voice of the woman who lived across the street. Melody got up and stepped to the living room window. The couple who lived across the way usually liked to bicker about things and Melody found their arguments quite entertaining at times.

A man, wearing a blue boiler suit, marched down the front steps to his driveway. His wife followed him out in her nightgown, pinching the top with her hand. Melody couldn't hear what they were saying, so she sat on the couch and opened the window.

There isn't either, the man said.

What do you mean? the woman said. It was already supposed to be paid last week. Why can't you just take care of it today?

Because I've got shit to do, that's why. He climbed in his truck and slammed the door.

You know, it's not like I ask a lot, she said.

The man rolled down the window and said, You're constantly asking for things. Are you kidding?

Fuck you, John, the woman said, her arms crossed.

Not now; I'm busy, he replied and turned his head to pull out of the driveway. The woman flipped the red hair out of her face and glared at her husband. She stood there and watched him as he backed up and drove down the road. When she turned to go back inside, she stopped and looked to the right. Melody saw it too. The trash bin by the driveway scooted forward a few inches, and something was stirring in the bushes beside it.

"Excuse me," Melody heard the lady say.

A pale, bald man rose up from behind a bush, wearing a sweat-stained wife beater. He hovered for a second before he staggered out toward the woman with his arm out. When he emerged from behind the bush, Melody saw he wasn't wearing anything below the waist, and his genitals were a stark visual in the morning light: a gray tube of clay swinging under a patch of fur. The woman cringed as he approached.

Stay the fuck back!

Melody hid half her face behind the headrest of the couch and watched.

Fuck off! the woman screeched.

The man lunged. His hand clasped the back of the woman's nightgown and tore it. She tried to pull it over her shoulder while she retreated for the front door.

"Help, someone call the police!"

The man jumped forward again, tripped, and fell onto his face, almost catching the woman's ankle. He managed to get himself back on his feet as the woman disappeared into the house. Having left the front door wide open, the man entered. Melody saw the woman through her living room window, just for a moment before she stepped out of view. The man lumbered past soon after. A desperate cry carried out into the neighborhood, causing Melody to shiver.

She jumped up, dashed down the hall to her mother's bedroom, and pounded on the door with the palms of her hands, Mama, Mama!

Her mother called back, Not now, Melody.

Mama, something bad is happening. A bad man just came out across the street. We need to call the police.

Mama's busy.

She could hear the rhythmic compression of mattress springs inside the room, so she waited. A few minutes after the creaking stopped, Melody's mother opened the bedroom door wearing a bathrobe. She could hear the sound of running water, as her mother's boyfriend must've been taking a shower.

Oh, you're still here, she told her.

Mama, we need to call the police, Melody said again.

What for?

Melody grabbed her mother's hand and led her toward the living room.

Jesus, always so dramatic.

When they reached the living room window, Melody pointed across the street to the open door. It seemed to have swung back on its own with the breeze, so it was only slightly open.

Her mother shrugged. What? What are you showing me?

A bad man came out from behind the bushes, Melody said. He wasn't wearing any pants, and he started running after the lady in that house.

Her mother looked at her for a second, and then snickered. You mean that red-haired woman?

Yes, Mama.

Oh, they're probably just playing games, her mother said. Melody made a confused frown as mother pat her on the head. You'll understand when you're older.

But, Mama, Melody whined.

Don't you worry about that woman, her mother said, turning away. Is your sister up yet?

Mama, we need to—

Tiffany, her mother shouted, walking into her sleeping daughter's bedroom. Tiffany, are you up yet? I don't want to play this game again. We've got to go back to the agency again today, remember? Get up. After some loud double-claps, Melody could hear her sister groan.

Melody continued to stand in the living room, gazing at the door of the house across the street. She tried to image what sort of terrible things could be happening inside, because she'd watched enough television in her life to have a vague idea of what the strange man might have wanted.

Her mother stepped into the kitchen and picked up the bowl on the table. You done with this?

Melody was so lost in thought she didn't even hear the question.

Melody? Are you done with this?

Oh… yes, Mama.

Her mother placed the bowl in the kitchen sink and rinsed it before picking up her tablet computer from the table. While walking back down the hall to her bedroom, she called back, If your sister doesn't get up soon, go jump on her.

Even the parent-sanctioned harassment of her sister failed to interest her. She continued to stare at the house across the street, her knees on the couch cushions, her elbows on the headrest.

It seemed the threat of being jumped on was enough to rouse Tiffany. She came out of her room dressed in the long pink t-shirt she liked to wear to bed, grabbed a bowl and spoon from the dish rack, and poured herself some cereal. After eating a few spoonsful, she saw her sister over on the couch and asked, What are you looking at, nerd?

Melody could already guess what her sister's snotty opinion might be, so she just said, Nothing.

Her sister continued eating and with her mouth full asked, Yeah, right. What are you looking at? Did you lose something?

I said, nothing!

Melody stepped away to gather up her book bag and lunch box. Even in cases of an emergency, her testimony didn't seem good enough. She already knew it was going to be a difficult day at school. The image of the door slightly ajar across the street was going to haunt her, even more than being flippantly blown off by her mother.

Melody rode in the back of her mother's sedan, listening to her mother and Tiffany discuss the affairs at