Waking Up Alive

By Emma Shortt

They’re running for their lives…

After surviving the zombie apocalypse for two years, Tye LeBow never expected to be saved from a hungry gang of zombies by a geek with a bad attitude and a penchant for explosives. Tye can’t quite work out why scientist Polly Parker saved him. She doesn’t want his protection, and she certainly doesn’t want his company. But Tye has no intention of leaving the beguiling geek behind.

Polly doesn’t want to leave her home, but when the wakers begin to show signs of a burgeoning intelligence, heading south is the only option. With a car packed full of homemade explosives, and Tye’s very large axe, they are ready for the road trip of their lives.

Bombs and blades aren’t the only keys to survival–they’ll need to rely on each other, in a way that neither could have imagined…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781633755444

Book preview

To my husband who taught me the true meaning of what it is to wake up alive.

Part One

…and the nerds shall inherit the earth…though they might have to share it with the zombies…

Dr. Polly Parker

Chapter One

There were many questions that Tyrone LeBow could happily have gone the rest of his life not knowing the answers to. What color a man’s skin turns when the breath is squeezed out of him. How quickly a small child dies when her throat is ripped out. Or even what was causing the harsh, chemical smell surrounding him.

As he stood in the family room of a house that, pre-apocalypse, he would only ever have visited if he planned on arresting the owners, Tye suspected he was about to find out the answer to that last question. He also suspected it was going to be an answer he didn’t much like.

He looked around the room, taking in everything from the expensive leather couches sitting opposite each another, to the wall of technology that, if he wasn’t mistaken, included a 3D television and enough computing hardware to power not just this house but every other one on the street. There was a little dust, a little mold, but all in all, it was in much better shape than most of the other houses he’d visited in the past two years, and that was good. It was always something of a lottery when looting for supplies, and Tye was happy to take a bit of normality over the usual shitstorm.

He shot a quick look over his shoulder. Behind him, waiting at the empty window frame and keeping watch on the street they’d just left behind, was Jackson, his one and only friend. She’d stay there until he gave the all clear…and there was only one way he could do that.

Ax in hand, Tye made his way across the room, through the space between the leather couches and around the lacquered coffee table. It did not escape his notice that the carpet squelched underfoot as he walked. Perhaps the smell was coming from there? If so, Tye really didn’t want to know what it was. He’d spent enough years busting into crack houses and meth factories to know that looking too closely for a stench led to some pretty gruesome discoveries.

The light was dimmer this far into the room, coming in horizontal stripes from the shutters on the other windows. It gave the elaborately framed pictures stacked up on the bureau a faintly creepy look. Tye could see the top of a head, the lower part of a jaw, almost like the people who had once lived in this house were unwilling to reveal themselves fully…at least not yet.

Tye narrowed his eyes at the direction his thoughts were taking—morbid, and what good was that going to do anyone?—and pressed on toward the open door. Once there, he paused for just a moment to listen. The silence was absolute. If the people who lived in this house were still here, the sound of his movements—no matter how quiet he had been—would have drawn them out by now. If there was one thing the zombies excelled at, it was their hearing. They heard everything. Still, there was only one way to be sure.

With his ax gripped tightly and a steady flow of adrenaline pumping through his frame, Tye stepped out of the family room and into a darkened hallway. It seemed to run the length of the property. To his right was both the staircase and the front door. It was barricaded shut with a large, heavy-looking oak table. Tye could see the marks on the parquet floor where it had been dragged. Numerous doors led off from the corridor but they were all shut tight. If he’d been doing this a couple of years ago, and wearing his uniform, Tye would have systematically checked every one of those rooms. Nowadays, closed doors didn’t stay closed for very long and the fact that these still were meant there was nothing behind them to worry about. Instead, Tye made his way to the very end of the corridor. It opened into a large kitchen. The light was better in here. The shutters on the huge back windows were beginning to rot and let enough light in that they no longer gave the effect of horizontal stripes. The kitchen was also perfectly clean. Stacked up next to the refrigerator—and there was no way Tye was opening that—was a case of bottled water. On top of that was a six-pack of soda. Seemed they’d hit the jackpot.

Quickly now, Tye hurried back through the house and into the family room. The smell was particularly intense here. It was then that Tye realized he’d been drawing in shallow breaths through his mouth and that his throat was dry. He had to lick his lips before giving a single whistle. It was their code. One note for all is well, two for start fucking running.

A moment later, Jackson came through the window frame.

Looks all clear, Tye whispered. On this floor, at least.

Jackson frowned as she looked around the room. Something’s not right here, she said. It feels…off.

Tye couldn’t argue with that, but then they’d known as they approached the house that something was weird, not least because the shutters seemed to be the only thing keeping the house locked tight. Someone had removed the glass, and recently, or else the inside would be nowhere near as pristine as it was. And yet all the shutters were latched shut, and the front door was barricaded. It made no sense.

Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Their supplies were practically nonexistent, and every other house had been stripped bare. It was this or go hungry. Tye had been hungry enough lately that he didn’t much relish the prospect of another night of stomach cramps. Fact was, every single week it became more and more difficult to find food. But, two years and then some after the apocalypse? Tye expected it. Nothing lasted forever.

Let’s hurry, he said.

He led them through the house, along the corridor, and into the kitchen. Once there, he drew in a few deep breaths, trying to clear the chemical stench, and gestured to the door next to the refrigerator. That’s gotta be the pantry, and the door is closed. Check it out, and I’ll keep watch.

With her machete in hand, Jackson did just that, letting out a low gasp a moment later. Jesus Christ, take a look at this, she whispered. There’s enough food here for weeks.

Tye had expected some—the soda was a dead giveaway—but this? He ran his gaze over the cans upon cans of food, some that he hadn’t seen in more months than he cared to think about, some he had never expected to see again. We can only take what we can carry, you know that, he finally said. Unless you wanna eat here and then take more with us?

I want to stuff my face immediately, Jackson whispered, but this place gives me the heebies, not to mention the smell. I don’t like it. It feels wrong. Let’s take what we can carry and find somewhere else to eat and rest.

Tye nodded his agreement. Hungry or not, he had no desire to eat surrounded by whatever was causing the stench. Jackson’s instincts were always dead on the money. If Creepyville gave her the heebies then there was a good reason for it. They might only have been traveling together for a little more than a month, but Tye trusted her implicitly. Back in the direction of the campus? he asked.

Might as well, she said. We need to go back that way to pick up the interstate.

Get a move on then, sugar pie. I’ll go after you.

Tye turned back to look down the corridor as Jackson pulled off her backpack. The sound of its opening zipper was unnaturally loud in the quiet room, more so than their hushed voices, and he shifted slightly to catch her eye.

I know. I know.

She stepped into the pantry and started loading up on food. Tye kept his eyes on the corridor, looking for movement, head tilted to pick up on any sounds. One came a moment later…a quiet creaking.

It came from directly above them.

Tye tightened his grip on his ax just as the floorboards creaked again. He looked up in both annoyance and anger. There was no surprise. He’d half expected it. No, he always expected it. Such was life in the land of the dead.

Did you hear that?

Jackson nodded as he gestured in the direction of the corridor. A moment later she touched his shoulder before pointing toward the French windows. Like the windows at the front of the house there was no actual glass in them, only the wooden shutters. Better yet, they closed from the inside, meaning they would be able to unlatch them and slip out. They moved across to them immediately. Food or not, it wasn’t worth the risk of hanging around. If one zombie was inside the house there would soon be more. They hardly ever moved around alone, always in packs of four or five, and the space was far too tight to take all of them down.

Tye shot a look behind him. From this angle he could see nothing but the space where the oak table had once lived. The wooden chairs that were supposed to surround it were stacked neatly against the wall. There was something indescribably tragic about that, and abruptly Tye imagined someone taking the time to stack them up even as zombies howled outside.

He reached out for the latch on the French doors, only then noticing that it was closed tight with a small padlock, the type used on a gym locker. Had he time, Tye would have picked it, but why bother when there was another way to get the shutters open?

We need to be quick, he whispered. I’ll kick it through, and we’ll head for the alleyway on the right. It’ll follow the noise and come down, thinking to trap us. Don’t lose that food.

Jackson slung her backpack over her shoulders, resolve stamped across her face. They could both hear the sound of something walking above them.

Now, she said.

Tye kicked through the shutters. Maybe it was the rot, or maybe the force of his angry kick, but they exploded outward just as a rattling groan sounded from upstairs. There was no doubt now, and he and Jackson burst into the backyard, speeding off in the direction of the alleyway.

Four zombies were waiting for them at the end of it.

There was little choice in what happened next.

With the steady trickle of adrenaline turning into a fully flowing river, Tye ran straight at the pack. A female zombie ran to meet him. She was naked—so many of them were these days—and dripping yellow pus from various wounds and orifices. He lifted his ax to swing at her. She swerved to avoid it. Tye kicked her with the same force he’d kicked the shutters. She fell at Jackson’s feet. His friend wasted no time stamping in her skull.

Balls to the walls! Tye shouted as the other zombies howled their displeasure. A mere heartbeat later, they came running. Tye’s was a teenage girl. No more than five feet tall, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a dirty pink tee. Her eyes fixed right on him, a sort of vacant hunger in them. As his ax sliced through her skinny neck, Tye only just contained his shudder of disgust. Stupid though it was, he hated killing the young ones. Of course, given his luck these days, it was no surprise that the next one was a kid, too. He wore a Grateful Dead tee. The irony hit Tye forcefully as he kicked him to the floor and stomped on his face. Bits of flesh shot outward. The stench was almost overwhelming. Worse even than inside the house.

Where’s the other one? Jackson asked as she skidded to a halt next to him. The one that was on the roof?

Tye wiped his pus-coated and bloodied boot on the grass. It wasn’t one of these?

It couldn’t have gotten down that fast.

A bang sounded from the alleyway. It was quickly followed by another coming from the opposite direction. He and Jackson had walked the street all afternoon, checking houses, looking for food, so Tye knew that there were no actual humans still living on it, and that meant only one thing…

Did you hear that? Jackson whispered.

Yeah.

There’s only ever five in a pack, at most.

Four here and one on the roof, Tye said, but even as he did he couldn’t help but hear the lie in his voice. Two bangs. Two more zombies. At least. And what the fuck did that mean?

No, she said. There’s more. Listen.

Tye didn’t get the chance. A zombie, the one that had been creeping around upstairs, jumped from the roof of the garage and into a roll. It stood up so quickly that Tye jumped back. He was so annoyed by his reaction that he swung his ax and narrowed his eyes.

Hello, Mr. Fucking Crash the Party.

Jackson pulled a face. Really?

Just trying to mix it up.

The zombie paused in front of them—and that was odd enough because zombies never paused with food so close by—and let out a shrieking howl. Once, those howls had scared Tye shitless, but that had been a long time ago. On a good day, the noises of the new world simply annoyed him. On a bad day, annoyance tended to be replaced by sadness.

Tye and Jackson took care of the zombie in no time. Two against one, and even though it was desperate to eat them, it never stood a chance. Only when its intestines were decorating the ground did they run for an overturned SUV and hunker behind it. Once there, Tye looked up and down the street. It didn’t take him long to find what he was searching for. There were more zombies, way more than there should have been, and they weren’t stalking their way along the street. Instead, several figures waited on the roofs, their elongated bodies outlined against the gray of the sky.

They’re in both directions cutting off our escape, Jackson whispered as she pointed to the buildings on either side of Creepyville. Look.

Tye cursed softly.

There could be more, she added, waiting on the ground.

There’s too many, Tye said as he counted up the figures. There were ten in total. "There shouldn’t be this many, he added. What the fuck are they doing?"

There’s no way we can fight a pack each. Not right now. We’d be as good as dead.

Tye didn’t want to admit the truth of Jackson’s words, not because of pride or anything—Tye wouldn’t have survived this long if he hadn’t accepted his limitations—but simply because they shouldn’t be in a position of having to fight the equivalent of three zombie packs. It was only in the very early days that the zombies had come at them en masse, and it was different then because they hadn’t been organized. They’d been wild, and wild zombies were a lot easier to kill than zombies that hunted with the instincts of a pack. And now? With fifteen of them banding together? What did that mean? Not that they’d gone back to their wild ways, Tye was sure of that. No, it suggested something much worse…

Ideas? Jackson prompted after a moment. Tye noticed that, despite the chill in the air, she was sweating. He probably was, too. An overdose of adrenaline would do that to you.

Not any you’re gonna like, he said.

When do I ever?

We need to split the packs, Tye said as the reality of their situation hit. Lead them in opposite directions, separate them, pick them off one by one, even shake them off, if we can.

"Split us up, you mean," she said.

It’s the only way, he replied, and he couldn’t help but think of the moment when they’d first met. Tye had been outrunning a pack of zombies, and he hadn’t realized back then that Jackson could have helped with them, could probably have taken them all on. Instead, and to protect her, he’d led them away, calling out a place to meet as he had raced off. Tye could still recall how surprised he’d been when Jackson had been there waiting for him when he’d arrived. He hadn’t seen another person for months by that point, had started to think that maybe he never would.

This, though, this was different. He wouldn’t be able to lead ten of them away, and Jackson was more than able to take care of herself. The last month had taught him that.

Say we do this, Jackson said after a moment. What’s our meeting place?

We’ll meet by that chick store. The one you said looked like a Barbie brothel.

It’s maybe a twenty minute sprint from here.

So I’ll take that, Tye said pointing to a house with its door hanging off. I noticed a side alley behind there, leads onto a green. I’ll follow it around, baiting the bigger pack, and then come out at the end of the street. You head in the direction of the rec center and get the others to follow you. We passed it earlier, remember? It’s only a couple of blocks over from the Barbie brothel. Wait there for a bit, then double back.

Jackson let out a deep sigh. Jesus, Tye, this feels like a bad idea in so many ways. I swear it’s got ‘fuckup’ written all over it.

What other options do we have? he asked, because Tye couldn’t see another way out. The moment they moved, the zombies would move, and shaking them off, picking them off, was the only choice. Still, Jackson looked worried, and Tye didn’t like to see that. It wasn’t that she shouldn’t be worried. There was every possibility that they both might die, but he’d long since recognized that Jackson performed better when pissed off rather than stressed. His mood made little difference. No matter how sad this world made him, the anger always came when it was needed.

Don’t tell me that Jackson the badass is scared, he taunted.

She snorted. Scared I’ll have to come save your ass when the zombies corner you.

You know they’ll never take me alive.

That’s what worries me, she said. You might be a dick 90 percent of the time, but you’re the only friend I’ve got to watch my back. I’m not ready to lose you yet.

Those words made Tye’s chest tighten, and there was very little in this world that did that anymore. It had been just a month and yet Jackson had turned into a weird mishmash of sister and friend. He didn’t want to lose her, either. Of course, the day would come when he would. There was no escaping that. Just like there was no escaping the zombies. But if he could delay it for a little while…

You won’t lose me, he said after a moment. I promise. And even if you did, you’d do fine. You’ve survived two years and then some. Skinny thing like you—makes no sense and yet here you are.

And if the plan goes to shit?

We’ll find each other again. Don’t we always?

Always doesn’t mean the same thing anymore. You know it doesn’t.

Nothing lasts forever. How could Tye argue with that? It means what it means.

Which in today’s world is precisely nothing.

Their eyes met. Her green to his brown. What passed between them was a curious combination of acceptance, resignation, and the undertone of a possible good-bye.

If you’re not at that store in an hour—one hour, Tye—I’ll find you and kill you myself.

I don’t doubt it, he said. Now, come on. Let’s do this.

And so they did.

Chapter Two

If you lived through the end of the world, what do you think would be the weirdest thing?

Dr. Polly Parker still remembered when her research assistant, Danny Delmagio, had asked her that question. She hadn’t given it much thought at the time, brushing the question off and saying something about the lack of decent coffee. Now, though, two years after living through, and in, an actual apocalypse, Polly thought of that question often, and had long since decided that one of the answers—and there were many—would be the smell.

The new world, the world of the waking dead, had a peculiar smell all of its own. Some days it was pleasant. The lack of fumes, the lack of so many bodies living on top of one another, it was almost pure, in a way. Other days, it was downright disgusting. Today was one of those days. Crouched down next to a row of hot-pink sweaters in Kelly’s Clothing Boutique, Polly couldn’t help but wonder what in the store was causing the stench. It would have to be something organic, something that was steadily rotting away, and it wasn’t a waker. If there was one thing Polly was certain of, it was that she was completely alone, not just in this store but the entire street. She always observed an area before setting one of her traps and knew that the wakers hadn’t been in this neighborhood for some time. Why would they be? There was nothing here to attract them.

So, if not a waker, then what? A dead animal? A blocked drain? The scientist in Polly was tempted to take a look around and find out. The sensible part of Polly, though, the one that cared a smite more about staying alive than satisfying her curiosity, stayed exactly where she was.

She had a job to finish, after all.

With that thought in mind, Polly wrinkled her nose, leaned in, and pressed four digits on the keypad of her device. She’d taken the keypad from an old Nokia cell phone, the type that had removable keypads. Polly knew she’d been fortunate to find a stash of them. Pre-apocalypse, nearly every smart phone in the states had touch screens, and what good were they to her?

The keypad lit up once the last number was entered, but thankfully it was the only thing that activated. Everything else stayed exactly as it was. Polly smiled—both because a plan coming to fruition always made her smile, and also because the device hadn’t gone off early. Polly was not a bomb maker by trade. She was self-taught, and every time she went out to set a trap she did so with the awareness that something could easily go wrong.

She went anyway.

Gently, very gently, Polly reached up, pinched her fingers around the lid of the box that housed the device, and lowered it. It shut with a click, the sound sharp in the absolute silence. She moved her hands back, her fingertips running along the edge of the box before trailing away.

Polly paused for a moment, crouched down, legs tingling from the position, and looked at the box. It gave her an immense amount of satisfaction to see it finished. It was simply a wooden box now. There was nothing to indicate what was inside. That was important to Polly. Though the wakers wouldn’t even know what the mass of wires represented, she didn’t want them to see the cause of their demise before they were blown to smithereens. Such a situation didn’t sit well with her. It was much better for their death to come out of nowhere and be over in seconds. Anticipation would simply make it worse. Polly knew this because she’d been living with that same anticipation for the past twenty-six months and thirteen days.

She grabbed her backpack, straightened up, and shot a quick look at the window. It was covered in the grime of the past years, but there were streaks and spots where the street was still visible. Polly could see the storefronts directly opposite. Hardly any still had glass in their frames, almost none still had their doors attached, and not a single one of them had fared as well as Kelly’s Clothing Boutique—either at the hands of looters or the wakers.

When she’d undertaken her first reconnaissance mission to decide where to set her latest trap, Polly had been fascinated as to why the boutique had remained virtually untouched. After spending some time in it, she was almost positive that it was because as well as there being almost nothing useful to steal, the color scheme was oddly repulsive. It wasn’t even the fact that the walls, doors, and floor were all varying shades of pink. It was the fact that most of the accessories and clothes were, too. The ridiculously short dresses the mannequins still wore, the piles of glittering sweaters on the shelves, even the pants hanging from various places. Who wore pink pants? Polly shook her head, wishing that question had never occurred to her, she was never going to find out the answer, and unanswered questions annoyed her almost more than anything else.

She moved around the fuchsia shelving unit to get a better look through one of the clear spots on the window. From this position she could see the end of the street. It was completely empty, the entire expanse was, just as Polly knew it would be, but that wouldn’t last for long. She looked down at her wristwatch, calculations and formula flashing through her mind. She’d been working on these calculations for the better part of six weeks. She knew them by heart, but her mathematical brain insisted on running them over and over. It was a defense mechanism. Polly understood herself enough to know that. Run the math. Ignore the fact that everyone is dead.

A moment later, she nodded to herself. Satisfied. Or at least as satisfied as she could be. It was almost time.

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, grabbed her detonator, and swung her backpack over her shoulders. It was significantly lighter than it had been, meaning that if she needed to run, Polly wouldn’t have any trouble doing so. It had been a different story on the journey here, weighed down by her device, Polly would have struggled to make a quick trot. Still, she was hoping that she wouldn’t have to make a hasty escape. Whatever wakers were drawn by the macabre breadcrumb trail that she’d very carefully laid out, should meet their end today. The plan—her long considered plan—was about to reach fruition…assuming of course that her calculations were correct. Assuming also that the wakers behaved in the way they were supposed to. There was no guarantee of that, though. Not given their recent odd…shenanigans…was that the word? As she moved across the store Polly couldn’t think of a better one. What else but shenanigans could describe the fact that they’d started banding together into gangs of fifteen or more? Or even that they seemed to be thinking about what they were doing?

Maybe terrifying, her brain suggested. Polly ignored it. She had a plan to complete, and thinking about how frightening the wakers actually were wouldn’t do any good. Action, not inaction, was the key! It was what had kept Polly going during the dark months. It was what would keep her going in the even darker ones to come.

With that thought in mind, and conscious that her breadcrumbs were about to open up and release their scent, Polly grabbed the handle of the door that led to the basement and pulled it open.

The front door of the store opened at exactly the same time.

It could not have been choreographed better.

The timing could not have been more exact.

And it was so impossible, so unbelievable, that Polly froze, her eyes widening, her breath catching in her throat.

In the seconds before the door opened enough that whoever was doing the opening was visible, a multitude of thoughts raced through Polly’s mind. Had a waker somehow crept up on her? How quickly could she pull her gun from her backpack? Where was the rest of the pack? Were they sneaking up from behind? It never even occurred to Polly that whoever was opening the door was a person, and yet it was.

A man walked into the store.

An actual, real-life man.

He spotted her immediately. She was directly opposite him, after all. The shock that flashed across his face was such that Polly realized he hadn’t snuck up on her. He hadn’t expected her to be in the store. This was as surprising to him as it was to her.

Wait!

His word, strong and clear in the absolute silence, made Polly jump. It was only then that she realized she had automatically begun to move into the basement. Automatically started to make an escape.

Please, the man said. Wait.

Polly stared at him, her brain not quite processing what her eyes could see. A real, healthy person, the first she had seen in more than nine months…and he was like something out of one of her nightmares.

All seething testosterone.

All narrowed eyes and determination.

And he was big, painfully big. An involuntary shudder assailed Polly as she realized that he was probably an entire foot taller than her and many pounds heavier. Worse, those pounds were all muscle. Polly could see that because he was dressed in just jeans and a thin sweater. He should have been shivering from the cold, but he didn’t seem at all bothered by it. In one hand he held a very large, very bloody ax. The other hand hung loose by his side holding onto a patched backpack. He also smelled overwhelmingly of aftershave. That meant that he knew that the citrate in it covered his scent from the zombies. It meant that he was a seasoned survivor. That he knew exactly what he was doing out here in the new world.

Everything is fine, he added. You don’t need to panic.

Panic? Polly tightened her grip on the detonator. She was well past panic, was into that feeling that came when adrenaline swamped everything else, a sort of crystal clear awareness that told Polly exactly what she needed to do, and it was not to stay around and chat. Because this was not the first man that Polly had run into since the end of the world…and the last time it had happened…

Polly swallowed past the lump stuck in her throat. The adrenaline combined with the memories from before had put it there. The only thing that was going to make it leave was for her to do so. Right now.

Polly took a step back at the same time as he took a step forward. They looked straight at each other. She held up her hand as if to ward him off.

Don’t come any closer.

I’m not going to hurt you, the man said.

It was both the wrong and the right thing for him to say. Wrong because those were the exact same words that Polly had heard last time. And right because they gave her the push she needed to turn, run into the basement, and slam the door behind her. With shaking fingers she reached up and slid the bolt home, locking the door in place. Only then did she take a stumbling step back toward the stairs, her breath coming in gasping little