Hallowed Ground

By Justin Fulkerson

Donald Bristo served his country for eight years and PTSD is all he has to show for his service. But, when a zombie outbreak occurs, Donald must go into survival mode and rescue Sister Mary Frances and her young nun in training, Christine. Taking them to his family hunting cabin in the woods, he prepares to teach them the skills they will need to survive while battling his own demons. As the women face an uncertain future, they must also come to terms with their pasts. Christine begins to doubt Donald's integrity and Sister Mary Frances finds herself questioning her faith because of the feelings she has for Donald.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Fulkerson
• Release date: Nov 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393113720

Justin Fulkerson

Author of An Hour for Magic, Justin Fulkerson’s literary tastes turned from science fiction (Isaac Asimov) to horror (Stephen king, of course) at the innocent age of twelve years old. His outlook on life was forever changed by the experience and his mind suffered the consequences. The creatures and scenarios running through his imagination forced him to begin his first novels while still in high school.  Twenty years later, An Hour for Magic arrived, consuming his every thought until the first 500 pages were transferred to paper. The next two in the series, Hollow be thy Name and An Hour for Maggie completed the tale. Finally, Hallowed Ground took Justin's mind into the realm of Zombie fiction. With several more novels in the works, Justin hopes that the world can survive long enough to enjoy the fruits of his imagination.

Book preview

Prologue

—

I’m fine. Donald said, an angry undertone lacing in his voice. It’s not my blood.

This was  the seventh ‘hunting’ trip Donald had went on by himself.  He never let either Christine or Mary Frances tag along.  It was too dangerous.  But, being holed up in the cabin for more than a month was making them both claustrophobic.

Donald grabbed the bucket of well water they kept in the kitchen counter and stepped out onto the back porch.  He knelt, cupping his hands into the water and splashing his face.  The watered down blood turned pink as he washed it away.  He scrubbed his hands and arms also, not speaking.  He seemed exasperated.

What happened? Christine asked, unable to take the silence any longer.

Donald took a deep breath, staring down at the porch, the chill of the morning making his breath smoky.

So many.  His breath plumed out into the wilderness beyond the porch.  There were just so many.

He was a strong man, but he broke down, covering his face and weeping.  The girls knew not to touch him when he was in this state.  They had learned before. The first time they saw him like this, things had gotten ugly and Donald had locked himself in one of the bedrooms for hours.  Christine was convinced that the PTSD from his two tours in Afghanistan had been worsening.  He was a war hero, fighting a whole different war now, the war against the undead. 

The zombies.

Chapter 1

We are living on the brink of the apocalypse, but the world is asleep.

-Joel C. Rosenberg

1

In the beginning, there was darkness.

The final chapter of humanity was being written and Sister Mary Frances felt that she was at ground zero, witnessing it all. Omega had begun.  Her faith wavered and collapsed in those final moments as she bore witness to horrors she never thought possible. 

Father Murphy tried to fight the horde. Mary Frances begged him to stop.  He screamed for her to run before being consumed into a writhing pit of outstretched arms and grasping hands.

There was blood.  Lots of blood.

Just when she was certain all was lost and there was no use running, Mary Frances saw her.  Christine.  The young girl had given up her fruitless life to devote herself to the church months ago. Now she was frozen in fear at the far end of the rectory.  The horror on Christine’s face must have mirrored her own.  They locked stares as a blood-curdling scream escaped her lips.

There must have been a dozen of them, maybe more.  At the sound of Christine’s scream, they turned to her, almost in unison, forgetting about the lifeless body of Father Murphy.  Mary Frances couldn’t make herself watch Christine be slaughtered.

She was going to run for it while they were distracted.  It was her only chance. Panic set in and she was powerless to control it. 

The nearest door lead to the church offices, where counseling sessions were held weekly, mostly with troubled children and their families and military veterans with PTSD looking for some sort of comfort to their pain. Mary Frances had been present to many of these sessions, offering advice and comfort where she could. 

A few of the bloodied attackers turned when she rushed by, just feet away.  She made it to the door and just as she opened it, she ran full force into a man on the other side.  A shocked scream escaped her and she started punching with all her might upon the person in her way.  She had to escape!

The man shoved her to the floor of the hallway, away from the horde.  Only after she pushed her hair out of her face did she see who the man was.  Faith returned to her heart in a hot rush.  She knew the man very well.  She knew he would be able to save her.

Her salvation came with Donald Bristo. 

Who else is in there? Donald demanded.

Mary Frances could not find her voice.  She couldn’t breathe. 

Snap out of it.  Donald growled, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her.

Christine. She gasped, wiping away the tears on her face. They’re gonna get her.

Mary Frances saw the bloody butcher knife in his hand.  He must have taken it from the kitchen.  The trail of blood she saw next confirmed her assumption. 

Donald leaned forward, cracking open the door. 

No, don’t leave me. Mary Frances whispered desperately.

Donald ignored her protest and disappeared through the door leading back to her worst nightmare.  Christine was still screaming.  That meant she was still alive.  Mary Frances knew enough of Donald’s history to know he could handle himself and this was the type of situation he had dealt with in Afghanistan.  But these blood-thirsty monsters weren’t the enemy, they were the congregation.  One of them had been Mrs. Wilkins from the pharmacy.  Mary Frances recognized her as she tore out Father Murphy’s throat with her freshly whitened teeth.

This had to be a nightmare.  Mary Frances almost ran, turning her back on both Donald and Christine but she knew she would never survive if there were more maniacs out there waiting to eat her flesh.  She needed Donald to protect her.

Screams from Christine and grunts from Donald came from the other side of the door.

She crept to the door.  Slowly she turned the knob and peeked out.  Mrs. Wilkins was slumped on the floor, her head all but severed from her body.  Her blank eyes accused Mary Frances, blamed her for her death.

In the midst of the horde, Christine was throwing everything she could get her hands on, struggling to get out of their grasp.  Donald on the other hand was charging forward, focused on his mission.  He thrust the knife from ‘person’ to ‘person’, slashing throats to the bone. Bodies fell in his wake.

Mary Frances couldn’t watch.  She backed away in horror.

A minute or so passed before the door plowed open and Donald appeared, covered in blood, carrying Christine’s limp body.

Oh no! Mary Frances shouted.

Donald was in the zone, barely acknowledging her.

She’s okay.  She fainted.  he said mechanically.  We have to get out of here.  Out of the city.

Mary Frances had no idea where he intended to go.  She just stared at him.

Get up!  Now! he shouted, anger showing beneath the blood-splatter covering him. My truck is out back.

Like a faithful dog being scolded, Mary Frances stumbled to her feet.  She followed Donald in a daze, praying to the God that she had given herself to over twenty years ago that this was all a dream. 

2

Fucked up nightmares were not new to  Christine.  Several times when heroin was lingering in her veins, she had awakened screaming in a stranger’s bed.  This time was different.

She woke up screaming, arms flailing.  The man standing over her was not a stranger though.  Neither was the woman sitting across the room, her arms wrapped tightly around her, hugging herself.  Sister Mary Frances  was rocking back and forth, whimpering.

Christine saw the blood staining Donald’s clothes and the reality flooded back into her mind.  She had met Donald a few weeks ago.  He was one of the soldiers that came to the church for help with nightmares and adjusting to civilian life.  She didn’t know his whole story, but he was always a nice guy.

Did you see them? Christine asked Donald. What’s wrong with their eyes.

Donald shook his head, pacing back and forth.  He had a duffel bag thrown over one shoulder. They were in a bedroom unfamiliar to her.  She looked around confused. Where are we?

My apartment.  We need supplies and then we’re getting out of town before they don’t let us out.

What are you talking about?  They?

The military will quarantine the entire area when word gets out.  We have to hurry.

Where are we gonna go?

My father has a cabin about ten miles north.  I haven’t been there in years.  Hopefully it’s still there.

Is it rabies or something? Mary Frances asked, staring out the window at nothing.

Donald shook his head and left the room.  Christine heard him rifling through cabinets.  Mary Frances looked at her.  Tears rolled down her cheeks.  She was clutching her rosary in a death grip.

They were like . . . she hesitated to use the word on all their minds. Zombies.

A sob escaped Mary Frances and she dropped her face into her palms hitching a raspy breath. Mother of God, hear my petitions, do not disregard us in adversity, but rescue us from danger.

Christine wanted to scream at the woman, wanted to tell her to snap out of it.  If there was a higher being, it didn’t give a shit about the human race if something like this could happen.  But, she couldn’t.  Sister Mary Frances was one of the people that had saved her life just months ago. 

3

Awaking from a coma felt like a religious experience in itself, besides the fact that a nun was standing next to her bed and the light behind her resembled a halo.  When she saw the soft eyes gazing down on her, she began to cry like a little bitch.  She thought she was dead.

I’m offering you a choice, Mary Frances said on her second visit.  It’s a way to save yourself from whatever demons you’re wrestling.

Mary Frances explained to her what their life would entail.  She explained that sometimes letting go of everything was the answer.  The thought was terrifying but considering she had almost died from an overdose, she knew there were many things she needed to change if she wanted to continue to live. 

But, the withdrawal tore her up inside, telling her there was only one way to end the pain.  It told her that the nun was lying.  It told her that she was better off dead.  Just when she was ready to give up, Mary Frances would show up again, calming her frayed nerves.

Christine didn’t understand why the woman would want anything to do with her and Mary Frances refused to give explanation when she asked why she was helping her.  Every morning she would visit Christine.  A few times she brought freshly picked flowers to decorate the hospital room. 

When Christine was given the green light to be released, Mary Frances was waiting on her in the lobby.  Christine had been in panic mode, trying to figure out where she was going to go.  She didn’t want to beg anyone for a place to stay because that led to more drugs in most cases.  Her circle of friends, during that time in her life, were all into the same thing.

When she saw Sister Mary Frances waiting for her, her heart melted.  She felt tears of joy for the first time in ages as they left the hospital together.

That seemed like a million years ago. 

4

Everything was going to be different now.  They were leaving the church behind and never looking back.  Mary Frances wanted to be strong.  She wanted to be the same person she had been during the days she spent with Christine.  But, seeing dried blood on her hands and remembering Mrs. Wilkins ripping out Father Murphy’s throat in the middle of the church had changed her immensely.

Donald drove, remaining silent.  He took back roads but that didn’t keep them from hearing the roaring sirens and see the smoke rising from downtown.  There was no telling what carnage was going on back there.

Turn on the radio.  Maybe they know what’s happening.  Christine said.  She was sitting in the middle.  Mary Frances felt the rosary digging into her palm, the only feeling that proved this was really happening.

They aren’t going to tell us the truth.  Radio’s busted anyway.  Hasn’t worked since I bought this truck.  Donald said.  He was constantly checking the rear-view mirror and surveying the road ahead.  They were heading into the mountains.  Eventually trees lined both sides of the road and continued as far as the eye could see.

The revolver sitting in his lap was nickel-plated.  He seemed proud of this fact when he told them both.  Mary Frances knew Donald suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, otherwise known as PTSD.  She had listened to many