Zoey and the Zombies: A Mondamin Court Adventure, #1

By R. J. Eliason

The world is over ran with undead. Giant hordes of zombies are pouring out of the East Coast, threatening the Midwest. The defense of Mondamin Court, a quiet neighborhood in Des Moines, Iowa is up to a disabled cop, a fourteen year old boy and a transgender girl. What could go wrong? Mondamin Court is a typical lower middle class neighborhood in a midwestern city. The people are a cross section of normal Americans. Each book starts with the same setting and characters but they face a different apocalyptic scenario.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. J. Eliason
• Release date: Jul 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536572971

R. J. Eliason

R. J. Eliason writes immersive science fiction and fantasy stories that feature diverse characters. Her writing spans many sub-genres from alien contact, apocalyptic stories and epic fantasy. She also writes in a wide variety of formats, from full length novels to an ongoing serialized adventure. Her writing can be found in digital and print formats anywhere online that books are sold. Or check out her website at rj.eliason.com and sign up for a free book. 

Book preview

ZOEY AND THE ZOMBIES

R. J. Eliason

Copyright © 2017 R. J. Eliason

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1534744649

ISBN-13: 978-1534744646

To all my fans and supporters everywhere. You guys rock!

PART ONE

Part one: the storm gathers

Part One:

The Storm Gathers

Chapter 1

Day Zero

Miami, Florida

Steven Shriver was sitting on the find of his life. Someone had propped open a fire exit door in an out-of-the-way building on the University of Miami Hospital campus. He knew that building. A few years back, Steven had been a productive member of society and a pharmacy tech; the building had belonged to the pharmacy.

He thought about the possibilities as he eyed the door. He figured if the codes were the same to the internal doors of the pharmacy, he could snag a goldmine of drugs, worth hundreds of dollars on the street. He made his move.

When he entered the building, he could see the area was different than he remembered—converted into a biology lab or something. He walked closer to a large, glass-front refrigerator case and inspected the contents. Not what he was looking for. He startled when he heard a noise.

A woman walked out of the backroom, unaware of his presence. But not for long. He quickly pounced before she realized he wasn’t supposed to be there, before she could try to leave and sound an alarm.

Where are the drugs? he roared.

There aren’t any here, she replied, her voice shaking.

He pushed her against the wall then. It excited him, the look of fear in her dark brown eyes. But he couldn’t delay. He needed to get the drugs and get out. Tell me, or else, he growled.

I’m sorry, she stammered. This is a biology lab. There are no drugs.

This used to be part of the pharmacy, he said.

They moved, she said, still shaking. They’re over in the west wing. How did you get in here?

None of your damn business, he yelled, backhanding her. He scowled. The west wing. He’d have to cross too many halls—too many halls with too many people. This wasn’t going to be the easy score he had imagined.

He made towards her, stumbled, and inadvertently stuck his hand into pile of petri dishes on the counter, the glass shattering and cutting his palm. He swore.

Sir, she said, her voice high and frantic. Please, let me help you.

Steven hated women, especially weak women. The world was a fucked-up place, and anyone dumb enough to show weakness deserved what he or she got. And she must be one of the weakest, most misguided creatures he had ever met, to show concern for him.

He carried a piece of metal pipe in one pocket of his trench coat for such occasions, when his rage threatened to erupt and take him over.

It only took a couple sharp blows to the side of her head and she went down. It was not the release he’d expected; it only worsened his disappointment and frustration. He wrapped his hand in his bandana, looked the lab over once more to confirm there weren’t any drugs, and fled.

He staggered down the street, clutching his bandana-wrapped hand. A vague orange glow on the horizon told him dawn was approaching. Downtown Miami was distant behind him. The good people were safe in bed. He felt dizzy and clutched the brick facade of the nearest building. Fucking bitch, he muttered. It wasn’t the bitch’s fault, he knew, but that didn’t stop him from blaming her.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was hot and humid. Then again, it was always hot and humid in Miami. When did I start sweating like this?

He paused and unwrapped the hand. The bleeding had stopped. The cut wasn’t that deep, but it didn’t look right. The edges were pale and dusky. It was infected for sure. Already?

He muttered another curse at that little bitch and rewrapped his hand. Swaying slightly as another wave of dizziness hit him, he crossed the street and disappeared into a park, making for the thick brush at the back and the homeless camp he called home. A good day’s rest, that was all he needed.

Mondamin Court, Des Moines, Iowa

Does anyone have anything else they would like to discuss? Jack asked. He was in his fifties, a fair amount of gray creeping into his short, black hair. He had a stern face, a good cop face. He was a cop, an ex-cop anyway; at least that was what Holly had been told. He walked with a slight limp and was on disability; he had been shot in the back or something.

Do we have a plan for the zombie apocalypse? Jacob Crighton asked. The chubby eight-year-old glanced up from his Nintendo DS as he said it. His mother Jessica just rolled her eyes.

Holly snorted. Nicky scowled at her.

No, Jack said, indulging the boy, the Mondamin Neighborhood Association does not have a plan for the zombie apocalypse.

Zombies are scientifically impossible, Rick put in. Rick was sitting on the couch opposite of Jacob, who was on the floor. Rick was heavyset, with bronze skin and dark, curly hair. Even though he’d been raised in Des Moines, Iowa, Rick’s mother spoke Hindi at home, and Rick had an accent. Holly had always meant to ask him what his Hindi name was, if only to show her interest and acceptance of diversity.

Are not, Jacob insisted.

Yes, they are, Rick said. First of all, to reanimate dead tissue is not possible, according to the basic laws of biology.

Holly searched desperately for an escape. She spied a half-empty tray of appetizers and snatched it up. I’ll just go refill this real quick, she said with an attempted smile at her wife Nicky. She held the tray out to the room. Anyone want something before I take it?

No one did. Every chair in the house was currently in the living room and currently in use. It was a good turn out for a community meeting in a neighborhood like this.

Holly fled to the kitchen with her tray. Rick was . . . she paused and tried to think of a polite word for it . . . special. He was a smart man, Holly entertained no doubts about that. He worked in computers, something deep, like programming. But he was, well, he was the kind of forty-year-old man who would spend the next forty-five minutes debating the existence of zombies with an eight-year-old if someone didn’t stop him.

Indeed she could hear the debate even as she stood in the kitchen. Holly rubbed her temples and looked around, wondering if there was any Tylenol nearby. Rick and Jacob’s zombie debate was the final straw. Why did Nicky want to be on the neighborhood association board anyway? And did she have to host these meetings?

Holly knew the answer. That woman always had to push the envelope. The first couple of years they lived in the neighborhood, Nicky had no interest in the association at all. Then she found out that their ultra-conservative neighbors, the Hillcrests, were on the board. From that day forward, Nicky had a new obsession. She had to prove, to herself and everyone else, that the lesbian couple were just as much solid members of community as the right-wingers.

Holly agreed with the sentiment, but she would have preferred a way of proving it that didn’t involve sitting in the same room as Maggie Hillcrest and enduring her hard stares. There were others on the block that weren’t accepting, but none as bad as Maggie.

Tonight, the tension had been thick. For once, Holly and her wife weren’t bearing the brunt of it. Lydia’s kid was back from college. Devon . . . no, what was her new name? Zoey.

Not that anyone was particularly surprised. Devon had been seventeen when Holly first met him, a tall, slender redhead. He had struck her as an introvert and a geek, obsessed with cosplay, renaissance fairs, and science fiction books.

Neighbors who had lived on Mondamin Court longer than she had told her, in whispers, that he had been something of a princess boy, wearing dresses and carrying a doll well into elementary school.

The fact that no one was surprised to have him come back from two years of college as Zoey didn’t mean they accepted it. Her hair was a few inches longer than when Holly had last seen her, and she was wearing a woman’s top. She looked remarkably feminine even without noticeable breasts or wide hips. Jack had given Zoey a long, hard stare at the start of the meeting and then refused to look in her direction again. Maggie kept glaring and scowling. More than once, she seemed on the verge of saying something, then stopped herself.

Even Nicky was none too thrilled. Nicky had come out as a lesbian in college, surrounded by a radical feminist philosophy that put a lot of stock in women born women.

Holly thought it was all outdated crap. At twenty-six, she considered herself a product of this century. She didn’t care what some feminist author two generations ago thought on the issue. What was the point of being a feminist if you didn’t support the rights of transgender people too?

She would have to be sure and catch Zoey when she saw her on the street and ask about her transition, if only to show her that someone on the block was accepting.

From the next room, she heard Jack’s voice as he interrupted the growing argument between Rick and Jacob, assuring both of them that, if there was any truth to zombies, the government no doubt had a plan. He said Mondamin Court did not need its own individual plan and Could we please move on? He called for any other business.

Holly quickly reloaded the plate of appetizers and headed back into the main room, certain the meeting was close to over.

So how do you think it went? Zoey’s mom Lydia asked as she slid her arm into her daughter’s.

Oh my god! Zoey breathed. Did you see the looks Mrs. Hillcrest was giving me?

You wanted to come, Lydia reminded her.

I know, Zoey said with a sigh. Maybe I was wrong.

No, I think you were right to come. They’re going to see you coming and going all summer. People are bound to wonder and talk. Best get it out in the open from the get go. They will adjust.

Are you sure?

Lydia just shrugged. Remember, those who—

Those who mind don’t matter, Zoey interrupted, and those who matter don’t mind. She rolled her eyes but smiled.

Her mom shoulder-bumped her. Exactly. Don’t forget it. Some of them are pretty conservative, but so what? You aren’t their child. You are mine. I love you, no matter what.

Do you think anyone will do anything? Zoey asked, glancing back at the neighbor’s house.

No, Lydia shot back. It’s not that kind of neighborhood. They might glare at you out their window once in a while, but nobody is going to hurt you, or even harass you. Not here.

Mondamin Court was a U-shaped section of road on the northwest edge of the Drake neighborhood in Des Moines. To the north, a ravine and small creek prevented development for a couple of blocks. Lydia’s house was set on the very bend of the U, with her backyard looking out over the wooded area. It was set back from the road and dark. Zoey knew the way instinctively, and in moments they were standing on the dark porch looking back at the street.

So what do you want to do with your first evening home from college? Lydia asked.

I don’t know, Zoey admitted. She hadn’t had many friends in high school, and after two years away at college, she had lost touch with the few she’d had. Just hang out, I guess.

Good, her mom said, cuz there’s been something I’ve been thinking about since you told me your news.

Zoey froze. She knew what Mom meant by her news. Mom was a hippy, yoga instructor, new-age momma. You didn’t get much more liberal in Des Moines than Lydia Scott. Still, finding out her only son was, in fact, a trans girl had to be tough. Especially when she’d been talking about grandkids for most of said child’s life. Zoey licked her lips and said, Yes?

I was thinking, Lydia said, this whole transition thing, it means a whole new set of garb for the ren fair, right? Remember that orange and black fabric, the one with the African prints? That would make a great tribal belly-dance skirt.

Zoey rolled her eyes again as relief flooded through her. You want to sew ren clothes?

I am sure a college student like yourself has much better things to do, partying and whatnot.

I’ve been taking lessons with Hannah, actually, Zoey interrupted, in tribal fusion dance. You remember Hannah from the psychic fair?

Come on, let’s get your measurements, Lydia said as she turned to go inside.

Jessica Crighton looked up, startled, as the front door opened. Her husband Michael entered, still in his hospital scrubs, a deep scowl on his face. He closed the door hard, not quite slamming it, but close enough.

I didn’t hear you pull in, Jessica said. And then, noticing his expression, added, Did you have a bad shift?

He shook his head. No, it was fine. It’s those damn neighbors again. They’ve got the driveway blocked. I had to park halfway down the fucking street.

Jessica glanced out the window at the two-story house next door. The lower level was dark, as always. A porch light glowed on the second-story patio. It was on day and night, and the conservationist in Michael complained about that as well. But Jessica understood; she wouldn’t want to have to climb those rickety wooden steps in the dark.

The owner still technically lived in the lower level, though Jon had retired to a vacation home in Arizona and only showed up a few times a year to do maintenance.

The upstairs he rented out to a procession of students from Drake University, which was only a few blocks away. The current occupants were two young men in their early twenties. Jessica knew them on sight but couldn’t recall their names.

I will try to talk to them again, she said.

It won’t do any good, he muttered.

Well, we could call the cops, I suppose. Is that what you want?

Yeah, right, Michael sneered. Their visitors will be gone before the cops show, and even if they weren’t, what good will it do? A ticket isn’t going to stop the problem. I should call in an anonymous tip.

Michael! You wouldn’t. Besides it’s just a suspicion.

Oh sure, I wasn’t born yesterday, Jess. Cars coming and going all hours of the day and night . . .

They’re college kids.

And when you stop them, tell them not to block the drive, it’s always the same excuse. ‘Sorry, dude. I just stopped by for a minute. I didn’t think it would be that long.’ Always different people, same excuse.

So?

They’re dealing, and you know it, he finished.

She glanced out the window. Her husband was probably right. Probably just pot, but still. They had a kid. They wanted this to be a good neighborhood.

But they didn’t have any hard evidence the boys were dealing, and they seemed like nice boys. They didn’t throw noisy parties or leave beer cans all over the place. Just a few blocks away, closer to Drake’s frat row, the same couldn’t be said of most of the tenants. Perhaps they should keep the devil they knew.

As if reading her mind, Michael sighed and said, Oh well, at least they’re quiet. Better than the last tenants.

Caleb spun the revolver mechanism and then snapped his wrist, closing it with a snap. He smiled, enjoying the look and feel of the revolver in his hands.

Would you please not do that? Kyle groused from the other side of the room. Kyle was thin and lanky, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt with a grungy flannel shirt over it. He was sitting on the bare wood floor of their apartment. He shook out his shaggy, brown hair and turned his attention to the pile of equipment on the floor in front of him.

Don’t worry, Caleb said. He was sitting opposite of Kyle, but on the couch. He held the gun up and sighted down the barrel. It ain’t even loaded.

It’s annoying, Kyle said. The constant click, click.

A .38 special, Caleb crowed over his new gun. Gotta love that. He sighted out the window toward the neighbor’s attic. Kyle liked the neighbors, but Caleb thought they were stuck up. A couple of nurses who acted like they knew better than everyone else.

No, I don’t, Kyle insisted.

Caleb sighed. Okay, let’s just get this out in the open. What the fuck is wrong?

Kyle looked up from the grow lights he was assembling. We had a deal. We were only gonna deal with people like us.

You mean people like you, Caleb shot back.

Other college students, like us, Kyle said. And it was to be strictly a cash business. Nothing to trace.

So I took a trade once, Caleb replied. I got a great deal. He went back to admiring the gun. Anyone who traded a classic .38 Special for a couple of baggies of weed was a fool. But a fool and his .38 Special were easily parted. I will have to remember that, he thought, feeling clever, for when I talk to the homies back home. Tell you what, he said to Kyle. You can have the next two deals, my entire cut. Is that okay?

It’s not about the cash, Kyle said. I don’t like that guy. I don’t want to deal with his type.

What, cuz he’s black?

Kyle blew a raspberry. It’s not that, and you know it.

Cuz he’s poor? Is that how this is?

No, Kyle said. It’s not. And don’t even go there.

What’s that mean?

Curly hair and a tan don’t make you a brother, Kyle said.

I am one quarter African American.

And growing up in a middle-class neighborhood don’t make you ghetto, Kyle barreled on. So don’t give me that whole don’t-play-a-brother routine of yours. You know what the problem is. When Caleb didn’t respond, Kyle went on, He’s an addict. Burned out. On shit worse than weed, I imagine.

Well, when you deal, you’re gonna get that sometimes, Caleb answered.

And that’s what we want to avoid, Kyle said. I don’t want him coming back here in the middle of the night, strung out, wanting just a little more, another baggie on credit, or for a car full of stolen shit.

Don’t worry. Caleb took a bead on the door with his new gun. It won’t happen. I will see to it. Kyle was right, but Caleb wasn’t about to admit it. But when the guy had offered the gun, Caleb just couldn’t resist.

Just don’t deal to him again. Or anyone like him, Kyle said.

Hey, you handle the hydroponics, I handle the selling, Caleb reminded him. That was the deal. He got up and stomped off to his room to inspect his new gun in privacy.

Chapter 2

Day One

Miami, Florida

I love my job, Maria Lopez told herself as she pulled the van in behind the ambulance and the police car. Dade County Mobile Crisis was written in bold letters across the side of her van.

Good morning, Ms. Lopez, the officer said as she approached. She didn’t recognize him, but he apparently knew her by name. I’m glad they sent a fluent Spanish speaker for a change.

She recognized him from a recent conference, but she still couldn’t recall his name. Our guy speaks Spanish? she asked. She glanced at the assignment sheet. Michael didn’t sound Hispanic.

The officer shrugged. It’s a mix of English, Spanish, and crazy, he joked. Maybe you’ll be able to make more sense of it. He’s well known to us, Miguel . . . he gives us a different last name every time, and he’s got no ID, but I’d know him anywhere.

The man was sitting by the edge of the road, shivering. An EMT was dressing his arm.

What’s his story?

Came out of one of the homeless camps, the officer said with a nod toward the woods at the edge of the park. Says they were attacked by a zombie. Killed three guys and bit him. Bit some of the others, too, before some guy killed it with a hammer. The cop shook his head.

Did they— She looked at the woods.

Naw, the officer said. The guy’s an old schizophrenic. He’s always got some wild-ass story. Probably bit himself. Anyway, he says he’s terrified that he’s going to become a zombie now. Can’t get him to calm down.

You want him placed? she asked with a weary sigh. I love my job. You know how tight mental health beds are. We had to send the last guy all the way to Orlando.

He’s insisting we take him ‘somewhere safe,’ and the only place I got is jail. Hate to see him there, the way he’s shaking.

Maria watched the shabby old man as he trembled, watching the tree line like he was scared for his life. Yeah, I know what you mean. Poor guy needs some anxiety meds at least. I’ll see what I can do.

Mondamin Court, Des Moines, Iowa

"This is Prepper Radio, calling out to all you survivalists out there. I don’t need to remind you that this show is the one of only a few left. Broadband, Ham Radio, as we used to say. Not many broadcasting on these frequencies anymore.

"I get hate mail all the time, let me tell you that. I get it from the left, and I get it from the right. But of all the hate mail I’ve gotten, Ric-vick . . . is that how you pronounce it? This guy takes the cake, let me tell you. He sends me a five-page email, five pages, explaining in detail why all amateur radio enthusiasts should voluntarily give up these frequencies so the scientific community can use them for ‘other purposes.’

"Well, you know what, Rick-dick or whoever you are? I ain’t gonna do it. I am going to keep broadcasting, and I hope all my listeners keep relaying the signal all around the world. Cuz