Kingdom of the Dead

By Anthony Izzo

The world has died. The dead walk the earth.

Fifteen-year-old David is taking shelter in abandoned building when he hears the dead outside. After a close call, he's rescued by men on horseback carrying homemade spears and knives. David discovers his part of the world has been divided into  Five Territories. 

The very existence of the Territories is at stake, as a massive horde of the dead draws near. David discovers the Territories are a treacherous place. The dead aren't the only things that are dangerous. Deception and a hunger for power rule the Territories.

David and the remaining survivors in the Territories must find a way to battle the dead and the living alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Knuckle Books
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533755353

Anthony Izzo

Anthony Izzo is the author of 17 thrillers. He enjoys writing tales of mayhem that include anything from zombies to psycho killers to murderous shapeshifters. Anthony was a judge for the Buffalo Dreams screenplay competition. He recently had a story appear in the "SNAFU: Future Warfare" anthology. When not writing, he enjoys playing loud guitar, reading crime novels, and giving craft beers a good home. He makes his home in Western New York and features Buffalo prominently in his work.

Book preview

Also by Anthony Izzo

Novels

Cruel Winter

Evil Harvest

The Dark Ones

No Escape

The Hollow

Forgotten

Beat the Devil

Infected (The Dead Land Trilogy, Book One)

Wildfire (The Dead Land Trilogy, Book Two)

Outbreak (The Dead Land Trilogy, Book Three)

Where the Dead Go

Storm Rising (The Gray Men Trilogy, Book One)

Darkness Coming (The Gray Men Trilogy, Book Two)

World on Fire (The Gray Men Trilogy, Book Three)

Short Story Collections

No Man’s Land

Chapter One

The boy had drifted off, and when he awoke, he heard them shuffling outside the deserted building. They chattered and hissed, as if speaking a long-dead language.

He cursed himself for falling asleep.  Felt vulnerable. He wished to be back under his blue quilt in his bedroom.  Back home, years ago, before this all started. Before the dead walked and the rot spread through the country.

He sat up and drew his backpack closer.  There were a few strips of jerky left in his bag that he’d found in an abandoned Target.  He had a machete, a change of clothes, and a flashlight that he saved for emergencies.  Couldn’t exactly run out and get new batteries for it.

David strained to listen. It was hard to tell how many zombies were outside. If there were one or two, he might be able to handle them. A pack of them would spell trouble.

It had been a long day of walking.  He’d found a burned-out brick building. It looked like a good place to rest, so he’d curled up in a corner. This after shooing a rat away so he could lay down.

He had dreamt of his last day at high school. It had been third period chemistry when the principal stormed into the room, eyes bulging, hair messed. That had been the second month of the outbreak. The army had held the dead back, but now they were a few miles from town. The army – and the dead- had seemed far away, as if it were someone else’s problem. But they had broken through the defenses. A full division couldn’t hold the dead back, and soon they were a mile away from Kennedy High School.

Evacuate. Keep calm. No panic.

But there had been panic. Desks turned over. Someone smashed a window. Frantic parents pulling up to the school in minivans and SUVs looking for their kids.

The dead arrived in the thousands. His math teacher died screaming as they chewed out his throat. Mrs. Sampson, the librarian, slashed her wrists with a piece of broken glass before the dead overtook the library.

His parents hadn’t come. David ducked out of the loading dock doors, the ones where they delivered reams of paper and janitorial supplies. From there, he ran home, where he waited for an hour. Mom and Dad never came.

When the zombies neared his neighborhood, David packed some clothes and supplies. He then headed out without a clue where he was going.

Mom wished him good luck on his algebra test that morning.  She’d kissed his cheek, her perfume permeating his nostrils.

He hoped Mom and Dad were safe.

That seemed a lifetime go.

Now to deal with the visitors.

He was somewhere near the New York-Pennsylvania border. No idea where to go from here.

Outside, the dead chattered.

He crept to a broken-out window. Spotted three of them creeping around, heads on swivels, jaws clacking.

A bald zombie with a hole in his cheek stared at the building. The Z licked its lips, black tongue gliding over torn lips.

The bald zombie edged closer to the window. David backed away.

As David was trying to stay out of sight, the zombie lunged through the window, arms flailing. The zombie turned its head and spotted David.

He swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Brain matter spattered on the concrete. David wrenched the machete free and whacked the zombie again.

It stopped moving.

Outside, they scratched at the walls. It was like stirring up a bee’s nest. Soon they’d all be looking for a way to get at him.

He moved to the next window and peered out. Two-dozen zombies stood outside, scratching and clawing at the bricks. Looking for a way inside.

They hadn’t found a way in yet.

That changed when the wall collapsed inward and the dead stumbled inside. David ran for the door, which was opposite the newly-formed hole in the wall.

––––––––

There was a door on the other side of the room. He ran to it.

He made it outside and slammed the door behind him. From the other side, they pounded on the door.

The rotters could move pretty fast. Not sprinters, but they could catch you if you weren’t quick. He’d seen it play out dozens of times when they had overrun the high school.

They pounded on the door and he pressed his weight against it, barely holding them. He could smell their rotting flesh through the door and it made him gag. He shouldered the door, but there were too many of them; he retreated and they spilled onto the street.

He took a quick look down the street. Abandoned and burned out cars lined the boulevard. The building he’d fled was in an industrial sector of town. In the distance was a brick factory with two large smokestacks jutting into the air.

David bolted down the street, intent on taking shelter in the old factory building in the hope that he would lose his pursuers.

As he reached the first intersection, a second group of zombies approached, fifteen to twenty strong and moving fast.  David kept going. Four more blocks to the factory.

A horse nickered. Hooves clopped on the pavement. 

What the hell?

Six men on horseback charged up the street, some of them carrying homemade spears. The man on the lead horse carried a wickedly-curved knife that reminded David more of a short sword. The horses blew past him, David leaping out of the way.

The riders met the dead in the middle of the street.  One of the riders speared a zombie through the eye.  The lead rider swung his knife and lopped off the top of another zombie’s skull.  After a moment, the group of fifteen were hacked and slashed to bits. Bodies and limbs piled on the pavement.

The lead rider approached David. He had a bushy, red mustache. Wore makeshift armor. His chest plate looked as if it had been fashioned from a car’s hood. His knife gleamed with blood.

He reached out a hand. Hop up here, kid. Unless you fancy being dinner for the dead.

David grabbed the man’s gloved hand and was pulled up onto the horse.

They rode.

Chapter Two

Frank Harding snapped awake.

He had been dreaming of Ashley, of the last time they had made love before things changed. The warm summer breeze had blown through the open window. She had smelled of fresh sweat and vanilla, her breasts soft in his hands as she rode him to climax. After, they had curled up, her head on his chest. He liked to nuzzle her curly chestnut hair.

How he missed her. It had been the last summer before the world died.

Currently, he was curled up behind the counter of an abandoned drug store, a wool blanket wrapped around him. He had caught a few hours sleep and managed to keep himself out of sight.

It had been quiet.

He was somewhere in what remained of Chicago. The Windy City. All the wind brought now was the smell of rotting bodies, spoiled food, garbage, and burning metal.

He got to his feet. The pharmacy counter stood on a platform. It gave him a good vantage point to view the rest of the store.

The shelves were bare, stripped of stock, save for a few cans of Ensure rolling around on the floor.

He patted the .357 that rested in a holster on his hip. Then he picked up the scoped M-4 rifle that had become his main traveling companion. In addition to the guns, he carried a machete tucked in a side pocket on his pack. It came in handy for chopping branches and busting rotter’s skulls. Their bones got soft after a while. Not enough Vitamin D in the diet.

His stomach growled. It seemed safe to take some time to eat. He went to the end of the counter, where he’d fastened a trip wire tied to some empty soup cans. It was an alarm meant to give him a few seconds’ warning.

He picked up the cans, wound the string around them, and placed them in his pack.

While he had the pack open, he dug out some dried apricots and popped them in his mouth. What he would give for a strip steak from Russell’s Steaks and Chops. That had been the last place he’d taken Ashley for dinner. She’d eaten her entrée and half of his steak. He didn’t mind.

He chewed the apricots while sitting on his haunches and listening for approaching intruders. A breeze whistled outside. An empty milk jug rolled down the street.

Frank had volunteered to come out here. There were reports of hordes of the dead growing and moving east. His people wanted to be prepared, so Frank volunteered to take one of the scouting missions.

It wasn’t too bad out here, minus the zombies trying to chew your face off. The Territories grew boring after a while. He’d frequented brothels, as it hadn’t taken long for them to crop up, even during the end of the world. The women there made him feel good, did things that would make some people blush. But he always returned to an empty house. Alone.

The people in charge liked that he was a soldier. Or had been. Fought in the Syrian conflict and the Second Great War. He was a good shot and liked to think he could manage not to get killed out here.

When his snack was gone, he rolled up his sleeping bag, tethered it to his pack, and shouldered the whole thing. At the front window, he watched the street.

A sleek, gray rat skittered past. It stopped and sniffed the air.

From behind a burned-out Pontiac across the street stepped a zombie. It burst into the street, lunged, and snatched up the rat. The Z bit down on the rat and tore away a hunk, the rat screeching.

They were getting desperate for flesh. The Z took a few more bites before tossing the rat’s carcass aside.

The zombie looked up and saw Frank in the window.

Shit.

He’d have to be quick. He shouldered the rifle, then reached back and grabbed the machete from the pack. He stepped outside and the zombie came at him.

Frank swung the machete and buried the blade in the zombie’s skull. Momentum carried the dead thing forward, shoving Frank back into the window.

The Z’s jaws worked up and down, teeth clacking. Blackish fluid dripped down its forehead.

Frank had heavy gloves and forearm pads on to protect against a bite. He grabbed the Z’s chin with one hand. With the other he grabbed the top of its head. He twisted, bone cracking as the head turned and nearly separated. The zombie twitched and he managed to knock it to the ground.

When the zombie was on the ground, he stomped the skull into jelly and took back his machete.

Damned messy, that one, he said.

He wiped the machete on the zombie’s tattered pants. Then he returned it to the sheath on the pack.

There could be more of them around, and his kill might have attracted unwanted attention.  Frank hurried down the street, scoping out buildings, hoping to find a tall one where he could get the lay of the land.

He spotted a ten-story building that housed a deli and a shoe repair shop at street level. Like many of the buildings, the windows at ground level were smashed out.

After removing the rifle from his shoulder, Frank went to the door. He opened it and peered into the dim interior.

When nothing jumped at him, he slipped into a lobby, the deli to the right and the shoe shop to the left.

A sign on the wall advertised various businesses on the upper floors: attorneys, insurance agencies, financial planners.

He spotted a door marked Stairs, visible in the low light coming from the street windows. He took a flashlight from his pack, wary of using up batteries. But he was going up a dark stairwell, and a fall in the dark could be fatal, even if the initial impact didn’t kill you.

Frank eased the stairwell door open and it gave a terrific squeal. Hopefully that didn’t alert every Z for blocks around. A musty smell wafted out.

After shining the light inside and finding the stairs unoccupied, he climbed, making it to the fifth floor. A heap of desks, office chairs, and filing cabinets blocked his progress. It appeared someone on the upper floors had made a barricade as part of a desperate last stand.

He entered the fifth floor, where the stink of rotting flesh hit him. He shined the light and found the source: a dead woman in a gray skirt and matching blazer sat in an office chair. A .38 revolver lay on the ground at her feet. She had a blackish exit wound on her temple. Nearby was a dead Z. Dead as they could get, anyway. The back of its skull was blown out.

He’d have to live with the stench. At the window, he set down his pack and took out a set of binoculars. He had a good view down the boulevard. In the distance, he saw the hot glow of a fire. Thick smoke rose into the air.

He wanted to find out what was burning.

Chapter Three

Her father had never sent for Laura in the middle of the night before. When Morgan Vance, Warden of the Territory, sent for you, it wasn’t something to take lightly. Twenty-something or not, she felt like a little kid again when summoned by her father.

The courier had just left.

Even in thermal underwear, she shivered.

She gathered up her jeans and sweater from the bedroom floor and put them on. Slipped hiking boots over heavy wool socks. She grabbed the Glock .40, taken off of a dead police officer during the Baltimore riots. She was only to use the Glock in case of emergencies. Her other weapon was a hunting knife that had roughly a quarter mile of blade.

She eyed the sleeping bag on the bed and wished to curl back up. Maybe later, but she didn’t think so. Her father had business to discuss.

She grabbed her keys and left the apartment. The hallway felt like a freezer. Mid-October and it was already bitterly cold.

The men were out gathering whatever could be found to burn. Winter would be brutal now that furnaces and space heaters were a thing of the past.

She left the building, stepped into the street. A patrol passed by, two men in makeshift armor. Both of them carried axes. One of them had a compound bow. They nodded to her. She nodded back.

She headed towards the school that functioned as her father’s headquarters. Laura opted to live in an apartment. Let the people see her father as elite, always guarded, like a king of old.

Morgan’s daughter. Spoiled bitch. That’s what they would say. Or so she imagined.

She approached the school, which dated back to the nineteen twenties. A central tower dominated the structure. They sure made schools to look imposing back then.

Two machine gun nests constructed of sandbags flanked the school’s entrance. Many of the windows had steel plates or boards fastened over them.

She approached the machine gun nest.

Hold up, someone said.

A man in a leather duster crouched behind the sandbags. He stood up. A cowboy hat with a feather tucked in the band graced his head.

Laura Vance.

The man squinted. Oh, hey Laura. All right. Go ahead.

She entered the school and made her way to the second floor. Lanterns placed about every ten steps lighted the stairs.

Her father’s war room was the school’s old music classroom. A dusty piano still stood in the corner.

Morgan Vance was standing over a map spread out over a card table. The Territories were circled in red marker.

You sent for me? Laura said.

Are you eating enough? Looks like you lost some weight.

I’m good dad.

If anything, she should be worried about him. His Carhartt coat seemed to hang on him. Wrinkles had formed on his forehead that weren’t there six months ago.

I’m sorry I woke you, he said. I couldn’t sleep.

Why?

The shipment from the Depot never arrived. They were sending food and medicine. It’s three days overdue and I’m worried.

Has it ever been this late?

Never more than a day. And there’s something else, her father said.

He smoothed the map out. A travelling preacher asked to see me. He came from the west. He mentioned growing hordes, thousands strong. Driving east.

There hasn’t been a horde that big in years.

She’d been eighteen when the Great Battle took place and her father had led screaming men into the teeth of a zombie horde. It had led to him becoming the Warden of this Territory.

We drove them out, but they could return.

What can I do? she asked.

I need you to go to the Depot. Tell me what you find. You’re the only one I can trust, Laura.

Who’s going with me? she asked.

Jim and some of his men, he said.

Culligan. She didn’t know him that well. She’d seen him coming and going on patrols. He was about her age, maybe a few years older. He’d been serving in the Iran War before being called home to deal with the outbreak.

At first light. I know it’s short notice, he said.

I’ll do what’s asked.

He folded up the map and smoothed it out. I know. Go to the armory and get a rifle. Extra ammo, too. I’ve already sent word you’re coming.

What do you think happened at the Depot? she asked.

If we’re lucky, they were delayed. But something worse might’ve happened. Raided by gangs. Zombies. I need eyes on the situation.

He came over and took her hands in his. Come back to me. It’s just the two of us.

Her mother had died of ovarian cancer the year before the outbreak. Her father had practically lived at the hospital in the last month of Mom’s life.

I’m sure there’s a good reason. And I will, she said.

Will what?

She said, Come back. Is the preacher still around?

He’s staying at Rodie’s.

I want to talk to him.

––––––––

Laura’s stop at the armory yielded her an M-4 rifle and several spare magazines. She was comfortable with the M-4, an M-16, and even an AK-47. Dad had soldiers serving under him and he’d insisted she was able to shoot. She’d learned from them at a young age.

After getting her weapons from the armory, which was housed in an old radiator factory, she headed to Rodie’s.

Rodie ran a hotel. The place used to be a flophouse back in the days of civilization. Druggies and drunks frequented the place, or so she’d heard. Or the occasional John wanting some discretion with a prostitute.

As she approached, the old name – Royalton Hotel – was faintly visible on the sign over the doors.

Inside, Rodie stood behind the front desk. She was in her late forties. She had a gap between her top front teeth. Her hair was receding, revealing a broad forehead.

Laura Vance, how are you? she asked.

Looking for a preacher, Rodie. You seen him?

I can’t give out that information, Rodie said, pretending to look stern. She held the stern expression for a moment before bursting into high-pitched laughter. Room three-oh-six.

You’re a real riot, Laura said with a smile.

Laura took the stairs to the third floor and found room 306. She knocked on the door.

The door opened, revealing a man with craggy face and close-cropped hair. He was trim and lean. Sinewy looking. He wore a black shirt with a Roman collar and dirty jeans. Cowboy boots graced his feet. He had a large knife in a sheath on his belt.

Can I help you?

Laura Vance. You met with my father?

Lucky I wasn’t sleeping, he said.

Can I come in?

He turned and walked across the room. She took that as an invitation to enter.

Inside, he had a chrome revolver resting on the bed. Next to that was a Bible with a cracked, dusty cover. The cover reminded Laura a little of the preacher himself. Dusty and cracked.

The preacher sat behind a scarred desk. Lay your troubles on me child. Do you seek forgiveness?

Are you serious?

No. What do you want? he said.

My father wants me to go to Depot. Our shipment never arrived. He said you saw a horde.

I did. In Illinois. West of Chicago.

Do you have a name or do I call you Reverend?

Harold Gillmore. Gill for short. Or Preacher. I kind of like that, the Preacher, wandering the apocalypse, gunning down zombies and spreading the Word. What do you think?

I guess I’ll call you Gill.

Excellent.

How many of the dead?

Thousands.

How did you avoid them? Laura asked.

I hunkered down in the basement of an abandoned house, Gill said.

What is it you do?

Travel from town to town. Pray with people. Offer blessings. Most of them don’t want to hear it, these days. Feel their lives have gone to shit.

He didn’t talk like any holy man she’d ever met. He could be lying. Maybe he wasn’t a real preacher. But why claim to be if you weren’t? Why not a rocket scientist or a ninja for that matter?

What church?

"Disciples of Christ. I had to make a quick getaway. Headed out into the ruin as the world fell apart. In the early days of the infection, everyone wanted me to pray with them. No such thing as an atheist when a zombie’s eating