The Dead of Life

By Chris Berrer

The Dead of Life is a world that is quickly consumed by an unnatural force gripping the dead. Driven by their hunger for flesh of the living they sweep across the lands, beneath the seas, unchecked. Even with the collapse of the federal government, an organization of scientists works diligently for a way of combating the viruses that is responsible for reanimating the dead. All a while leaving those who have will to live, struggle for survival- with no law to bind ethics, the worst of humanity arises . . . but for your own life, how much are you willing to sacrifice. How much is too much till you no longer see yourself as, human. At what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465342010

Chris Berrer

Chris Berrer I am a young writer from a small town in the Ozarks where I grew up. I’ve always had a love for horror, old, new and even B classics like The Evil Dead but more importantly, classics like Night of the Living Dead and Dawn of the Dead by Gorge A. Romero which inspired today’s zombies. With a hunger for the undead, I formed a collection of anything zombie over the years. With inspiration I wrote my first book; The Dead of Life is a blend of the old classic zombies into the modern world of today.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I feel nothing. It’s dark, no moonlight. I scan the blackened sky looking for the moon or stars, but absent—all hidden behind clouds. Lying on the ground where I awoke from my dreamless sleep, I watch the massive black forms move across the night sky.

I try to sit up, but pinned, limbs held in place. Craning my neck, the joints and bones groan in protest. I notice the silhouette of a large figure that is placed across my chest. It’s too dark to make out. I struggle under its weight, freeing one of my arms. I work my elbows underneath it. Then I force whatever it is from my chest. It rolls down onto my legs. With both arms now freed, I try to sit up once again. A sound rises from my back, sounding like someone cracking their knuckles or the popping of joints. Oddly though, I do not feel the physical relief. Now that I think about it, I can’t feel anything. I hold up my hands, trying to study them, but unable to make out any details. As I move my fingers, they are stiff. Still sitting, I rub my hands together, but still I can’t seem to feel my hands—not the wind nor the cold nor the warmth of my breath. I start to panic. I place a hand over my heart, expecting to find a racing beat. Nothing, not a single beat.

Panicking, I call out as I attempt to pull my legs free, Hello. My voice is weak and wheezy at first. I attempt to clear my throat, but it seems that I can’t even force a cough. Pushing with one leg against what was pinning me, I managed to get free. I can now see the portion of the dark mass yield to where I applied the force. Both legs now free, I attempt to stand. As I quickly rise, my legs stiffen and refuse to work. Losing my balance, I fall forward with outstretched arms to break my fall. I hit the ground, landing on an uneven surface. Rising to my hands and knees, I study the ground. Pressing against the surface, the shapes yield under the force.

I lean in closer to try and get a better look at what exactly it is I am kneeling on. A cloud passes overhead, bathing me in moonlight, giving me the first opportunity to see what it is that’s underneath me. Thinking it is just the moonlight, I see almost a kind of pale smooth surface. Then my eyes focus. I find myself looking into the dilated eyes of a pale face. Startled, I stumble, quickly scurrying backward. I stop in midstride, my eyes never leaving the pale, lifeless face. Outstretched my hand freezes above the ground. Slowly I press down, sinking ever so slightly into what I thought was the earth. I turn my head ever so slightly. Running my eyes across the ground, I see pale, lifeless figures as far as I can see. A sea of dead bodies littered the night, piled one on top of the other, left to rot.

Slowly I attempt to rise to my feet again. Successful this time, I stand. Eyes wide, I study the mass grave closer. All is motionless. Not a single living thing. I see different ethnicities, so this isn’t race related. Among the bodies are men, women, and even children. It appears that the inhabitants were chosen indiscriminately. I can’t find any common factor that gives any insight to this mass grave of dead.

The apparel ranges from jeans and T-shirts to dress clothes, PJs and nightgowns—some are even wearing military uniforms. Also, even a few are completely nude. Then noticing for the first time that I am one of them, I’m standing in the middle of a mass grave of thousands, and I’m naked. Frantically I look for some clothes or a stray cloth I can at least wrap around myself, preferably clothes that aren’t worn by the dead. That leaves an uncomfortable thought in my mind. My eyes land on a dark cloth lying across what I’m guessing is another dead body. On weak, shaky legs, I stumble a few steps toward it. As I reach the dark cloth, I lean down, seizing it with one hand. Struggling to stand upright, another cloud blocks the moonlight once again, plunging me back into darkness.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a pale light flitting over the bodies. Draping the thin cloth around my body, I feel no warmth from the sheet; but no longer standing here naked gives me, at the very least, a little comfort. In the darkness, I slowly approach the source of light, about a hundred feet away from where I found the dark colored sheet. Having trouble keeping my balance, I almost shamble as I approach the source of light. Stumbling over the uneven surface of the bodies, I am more concerned about getting to where the light is coming from rather than falling. Fifty feet or so from the sickly light now. It has almost a yellow glow to it. I can make out a figure roughly the size of a man, and the light is coming from what I am guessing is a flashlight in his, or maybe even her, hand. As I near the one directing the beam of light at the ground, I can see a long pole in the right hand. At the end of this long pole was a metallic sheen as the beam of light passed over it. Approaching the figure poking and prying at the bodies, I start to speak but hesitate at a feeling. For the first time since I’ve awoken, I feel something . . . hunger; I hunger for this person. It’s hard to fight the urge to walk up to him and tear into his throat, rip him limb from limb. Standing there addled, I try to think of a rational reason I feel so compelled to not only kill this person but eat him as well.

The beam of light shines brightly into my eyes. I bring up a hand out from underneath the black sheet to block the light. Straining to see, I try to make out the person standing some twenty feet away. The only thing I can make out is the metal pole that this person had been using to turn over the bodies—a pitchfork. The figure lifts it in one shaky arm, pointing it at me.

Who—who are you? asks the figure in a deep frightened voice, confirming that this person is indeed a man.

I open my mouth to tell this man my name, but no words . . . no name comes to mind—not just the name, but also how I got here or where I live. Nothing, it’s all blank.

Lost in thought, the man speaks again, but this time, a little more firmly. Who are you?

I don’t know, I say, not wanting to lie to this man. It’s hard enough to fight the urge to attack him, let alone to think of a lie.

The man’s stance loosens a bit as he lowers his pitchfork, redirecting the beam of light out of my face. I lower my hand, gripping the sheet around me. Now that the light is out of my eyes, it gives me a chance to get a better look at the man behind the light. He looks middle-aged, hairline receding with spots of gray, along with his beard. He wears a long trench coat. It’s opened, revealing a tattered T-shirt, pair of jeans, and work boots. He is no more than twenty feet away; I can smell him at that distance. He smells sweet and savory. I find myself sizing him up, wondering where to bite him first. I lick my lips, and the man raises his pitchfork again. Guess I was giving off a bad vibe. I can understand why.

With a hostile look on his face, he asks, Are you okay?

Pleading, I say, No, I think I may be sick.

He takes a step back and holds his weapon a little tighter, then says, Were you bitten?

To resist the urge to move closer, for his and my own safety, I close my eyes thinking maybe not looking at him might help suppress the hunger. I reply, misinterpreting his question, No, I’m not going to bite you.

Still with his hostile tone, he says, I didn’t ask if you were going to bite me, I asked if you were bitten.

Confused, I open my eyes to look at him taking a step forward. Bitten? What do you mean bitten?

Whoa . . . , he said, angling his pitchfork a little higher. Hold it right there, partner! He shouts, Not another step. What do you have underneath the blanket? Let me see your hands.

Still confused and a bit irritated, I reply, Nothing. I have nothing on underneath, and what do you mean by bitten?

A brief moment of silence as the man seems to be thinking. He lets his pitchfork rest on the ground, which are still the bodies, then says in a more concerned tone rather than hostile, Nothing? As in you’ve got on your birthday suit underneath that?

With mixed emotions from now frustration to confusion, helplessness, and, most of all, hunger, I try to calm my nerves before speaking. Okay, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I woke up here in a fucking pile of bodies, can’t feel a goddamn thing, don’t know who I am and— I stop abruptly, not wanting to alarm him by telling him I have a bad case of the munchies and am resisting the urge to bite his face off.

Wide-eyed with disbelief, he says, You woke up? Out here?

I nod.

Oh god, he says, You don’t know what’s happened do you?

I open my mouth to ask, but notice a second figure for the first time, maybe an arm’s length from this older gentleman. Instead, I ask him, Are you alone out here?

What? he asks as the figure latches on to the man from behind. He screams, dropping his flashlight and pitchfork. The flashlight rolls a couple of feet away from him, pointing off in the distance. Releasing my only shred of clothing, I force my legs forward, stumbling toward the man. His scream fills the night as his attacker brings the man to his knees. He reaches back, trying to free himself from its grip. I’m now just an arm’s length away from him as he falls to his stomach. The old man is pinned while his attacker is on his back and is . . . biting him.

I am transfixed by the sight; the older man holds up a hand outstretched toward me, his other hand held to the side of his neck, covered in blood. I hold out my hand; it hovers just inches from his own. Studying his face, it is screaming in fear, he didn’t need to tell me he was afraid. His wide eyes said it all. The thing on his back reels its head back. Its mouth is filled with what is left of the older man’s neck. My eyes still locked with the old man’s; his arm slowly lowers to the pile of bodies. His is forced to lye across. The old man gives one more good thrash, trying to force the creature away from him again but fails as it bites into the back of his neck once more. This time, I hear bone crunch, the man’s eyes dilate, and his head drops. Blood trickles out of his parted lips. The color quickly drains from his face.

My eyes move from the face of the dead man to his assailant, completely unaware of my presence. It is still dark, and the flashlight pointed off into a different direction; but I can perceive the small-framed figure on his back is, or rather was, female. I noticed as one of its grayish breasts hung out from her torn shirt. I watched for what seemed like the longest time as she leaned forward and with her remaining hand gripped the portion of flesh she was indulging on. One more crack and she severs the man’s head. Blood gushes from torn arteries and veins. Muscle, tendons, and a severed vertebra hang out where the man’s head should have been. I know that I should be scared shitless, but for some reason, I’m not. Watching as this malformed woman makes my hunger stronger, I can’t resist. To my horror, I drop to my knees and take hold of a handful of muscles from his neck. I pull back, tearing the flesh free. Licking my lips, I bring the human flesh to my mouth. So hungry. I then place the bloody muscle in my mouth and slowly chew. Words cannot define the divine taste of his flesh. I quickly reach down for another strand of muscle and then consume it in one gulp. I begin to sob, knowing how wrong this is; but I just can’t fight the feeling, the need, the hunger to feed. Again and again, I fill my mouth with handfuls of tendons, muscles, and other tissue that I can get my bloodied hands on. All the while I continue to sob, but not a single teardrop falls from my eyes. The smell of rotting flesh comes from my dinner guest, but I ignore the putrid smell. I can hear what sounds like moans and the shuffling of feet nearby; it is not alarming to me. All that matters is the hunger to satisfy.

Running faster and faster, the man’s lungs burning, he dives into a bush after ducking under a low-hanging branch from a tree a few paces off. The underbrush is just large enough to conceal his presence from his pursuer in the midnight darkness. He hears the shambling steps of the pursuer as he clumsily descends down the hill, following in the direction it last saw the man. Driven by the hunger, it forces its broken body down the steep slope. With a drag of its crippled leg, it loses what balance it had and goes tumbling headfirst down the hill.

Ignoring the bone protruding from its newly broken arm, it extends the arm, pushing itself onto its feet. As a moan passes through its fleshless mouth, the hiding man stifled a sob, covering his mouth with his lacerated hands. Praying the pursuer had not heard him, he listens for his hunter to determine that it is approaching in the direction he has fled. With the man’s hunter moving closer and closer, he hears a thud, followed by a loud crash. As the hiding man searches for the source of the crash in his place of refuge, he sees the low-hanging branch from the tree lying across the broken form of his hunter. Never removing his hands from his trembling lips, the man squeezes his eyelids shut, suppressing tears, fearing that the slightest sound will give him away. The creature picks itself up once again with a fresh cut across its scalp and then pushes on deeper into the forest in search of its prey. When the man can no longer hear it, he slowly wills himself out of hiding, unaware of the other seven at the top of the hill that have followed the man’s hunter into the forest.

He found himself fleeing once again, but this time, not from one pursuer. He now ran from at least seven that he knew of, and in his panic, he has inconveniently forgotten about the first that has headed deeper into the forest in search of the injured man. Tripping over tree roots and dodging the occasional low-hanging branch, the fleeing man pushes deeper into the forest. With his pace slowing, his thoughts drift to the other one as he thought of them, somewhere up ahead. With the completion of that thought, he is greeted with the first pursuer joining the hunt once again, stumbling into view of the man about five or so paces ahead. He doesn’t bother to check the ones advancing behind him. No more, he thought, no more. He lets out a furious battle cry as he charges the one blocking his way. In two long strides, the man turns his shoulder, meeting the One’s chest, knocking it clean off its feet. Such a shoulder check would have made any professional football player proud. Or so the man thought as he started his hike up a steeper part of the forest some ten, fifteen paces past the hunter he just ran through.

An hour in the forest had passed since the man last saw one of them, during which he had spent hiking up a steep hill meeting a rough rocky path winding up the side of a cliff. A tough hike even in the proper hiking gear, but this man finds himself in a pair of tattered leather dress shoes, khaki pants covered in mud, and what was once a light purple button-up dress shirt now matching his current ensemble with sweat, grime, dirt, and small traces of the man’s own blood. The rocky path leads to the top of this plateau, judging by the local geography he’s knowledgeable of. Over the last fifteen minutes or so, the man’s paces dwindled as the cliff path steepened to where he was almost climbing. With sheer determination or fear, whichever of the two that motivated, he moves forward. He reaches the end of his path—well, the hiking trail, that is. He lies there on his back for what seems to be ages. He sits up and studies his new environment; he sees that the tree line is thinner up here, even thinner around the edge of the plateau. He studies it more intently, having trouble seeing in the dark but could make out a faint building looming in the center of this forest. It stands a few feet above the tree line. He picks himself up. A feeling of dread washes over him. The best part is with the roar of thunder and a single lightning bolt off in the distance, it begins to rain.

Summer. It was in the middle of the night when the sirens went off. Odd, I thought to myself as I slowly rose from bed. I reached for my cell phone sitting on the headboard. Seizing it in my hand, I unplug it from the charger, flipping it open. Letting my eyes adjust, I see it is almost two in the morning.

I raise the blinds to see a normal night as far as the weather goes, with the exception of storm clouds off in the distance, but I notice an unusual amount of traffic passing by a row of houses. It can’t be them testing the tornado sirens; they only test them on Thursday afternoons, and it doesn’t look like a funnel cloud off in the distance. I slide on a pair of gray sweatpants like I always do when I’m lounging around the house.

Placing my phone in my pocket, I head out of my bedroom. Up the stairs, I see my sister standing in her doorway with a dazed look across her face. Heading down the hall to my parents’ room, I am halted by the ring of the doorbell, followed by three consecutive knocks at the front door. Wondering who would be at the door at this hour of the night, I unlock it to see a man in military fatigues dressed for combat. He addresses me, inquiring if this is the Browns’ residence. I’m unresponsive with shock, staring at the assault rifle in his hands. He grabs me by my arm, pulling me out of the front door, telling me we’re being evacuated. As he drags me to the curb, I hear him shout orders to retrieve three others inside my house.

I don’t have much time to take in my surroundings; but what I do register is many soldiers doing the same procedure up and down the street, moving from house to house, taking all residents to the street, loading them all into large military trucks, the ones with the long covered beds. I’m pushed off to one of the trucks in front of my house. When I climb into the back of the truck, I see that I am the only one in it, and this truck appears to be the last one on our block, as well as the last in the convoy.

The soldier who took me from my home stands just a few feet from the back of the truck, talking to who I guess was his superior. I overhear the end of their conversation. He tells the man who took me that they are pulling out now, that this area is compromised, and to abort the evacuation. With his new instructions, the man says something into his radio that I could not make out.

I see all the soldiers stop what they are doing, and those in the midst of dragging others out of their homes release them and head to the nearest truck. The three soldiers I saw enter my house come rushing out unaccompanied and pile into the truck with me. Then after them, the one who gave the order does the same. And as he takes his seat across from me, he shouts in his radio, Get this convoy moving! Not a second passes, and the truck slowly crawls forward, leaving my family behind.

I look up at the soldier that’s been giving the orders, the same one that took me from my home and put me in the back of this truck. I see a few bars on his chest where his rank is. I don’t bother counting them; I know he’s some kind of sergeant. This is the first chance that I’ve gotten to study these men; they’re all wearing the new digital combat uniforms, ACUs I think they’re called, and all telling they’re in the same unit of the army. The sergeant, I’m guessing, is in his thirties with his slightly weathered look—he might have seen combat. He has a tan complexion with short black hair and brown eyes. It’s hard to tell in the dark light. He catches me studying him and meets my gaze. I look at him with what I feel is a look of loathing.

He says in a harsh yet informative tone, Don’t even think about it, kid.

Think about what? I reply, anticipating what he was going to say.

You know very well what. Don’t bother trying to escape. If you want to go, go. It’s your funeral, kid.

Why’s that? I say with a curious undertone. But before he can answer, I tumble over the back of the truck as it slows its pace.

I tuck and roll as I hit the concrete, rolling back onto my feet as the truck pulls away, knowing that this is the last truck in the convoy, so I do not need to worry about being run over. I stagger back a few steps, trying to regain my balance after the little tumbling feat I did. Feeling a slight discomfort instead of pain from the brief contact with the road, I turn down the way that the trucks were coming, not caring what I may encounter that the military was so afraid of. All I am thinking about is my family. We made it about two and a half blocks before I made my daring escape. I could close the distance in just a couple of minutes, even barefooted. As I start heading home, I pick up speed; the only other thought in my head was the sergeant’s name, Bradshaw.

Almost there, I thought, as I was no more than a block away from home, but that was when I heard the screaming. It was nothing like it was supposed to be. All of the violent blood-chilling screams. They weren’t like they were in the movies I watched or the games I played. It was . . . different, real. I fought the urge to run like logic would have dictated. I pushed forward, down the street. Reaching my block, I can make out my house in the distance, but only as a faint outline. Just now, I am realizing that there are no streetlights on. The only source of illumination is a red glow in the distance. Then like a tidal wave, it hits me, and my heart skips a beat—it’s fire, the town is starting to burn.

Noticing out of fear that my pace has slowed, I pick it back up, but not for long. That was the first time I saw them—well, not up close, not just yet. They were just figures at the far end of the street, shambling downward. Those who had been disturbed by the evacuation but left behind for whatever reason were the first to go. Standing around not comprehending what it was they were looking at, the—sick?—fell upon them. Those who were too shocked to run just stood there. Others tried to fight or fend off their attackers. The only thing all of them had in common were their screams. Filing randomly down the street into houses, swarming those abandoned by the military, these creatures began to feed on their captured prey like animals. Only they weren’t. They were human, or so I thought. Unfortunately, it took me too long to comprehend this.

Panting and out of breath, I come to my house, these things just now reaching my row. Only dodging out of the reach of a few, I’m at the front door of my house; it’s wide open. I hesitate entering—too long I hesitated as one of the abominations seized me from behind.

Quickly I lash out, freeing myself from its cold grip. Not daring to look, I grab the doorframe, flinging myself into the open doorway. Turning as I enter, I finally see my attacker. It was an older man, maybe middle-aged. All I had time to see as I charged him was that he had on an opened bathrobe. He stumbled back, falling down the steps leading up to the doorway. With the creature slowly pushing itself up, I take the doorknob in my outstretched arm, slamming the door shut. In the darkness of the house, I felt for the deadbolt; finding it, I lock the door. I turn, facing the living room, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the pitch-black interior of my former home. As my eyes adjust, I hear an almost wet smacking sound.

Oh god, please! Someone help me! sobbed the injured man.

Instead of a reply, his answer was the roar of a single gunshot, followed by another, then another, and then four more consecutive shots—totaling seven rounds in all. In the midst of panic, the man dived for cover as the rifle rounds found their mark, which happened to be the seven pursers behind him. Huddling with his arms wrapped around the trunk of the tree, he sought comfort, his hearing momentarily impaired, still ringing with the echo of the seven shots. When he finally released the tree from his death grip, he rose to his hands and knees. Braving a look over his shoulder, he sees that each of the seven creatures that were hunting him had been dispatched. All with ragged entry wounds within the vicinity of their heads.

The man begins to sob, but this time not out of fear. Still sobbing, he slowly used the tree for balance as he heard one more gunshot. Before he has time to comprehend what just happened, he felt a sharp pain on the left side of his face. Recoiling, he thrashed back to the tree, placing it between himself and the shooter. In doing so, he applied pressure with both hands to the side of his face, feeling a wet sticky fluid in between his fingers. Dizzy, he slowly lowered himself so that he was sitting against the base of the tree. Realizing what had happened, he slowed his radical breathing and tried to calm himself down. His fingertips studied the abnormality on his face.

The injured man came to the conclusion that he’d just been shot, but it was only a flesh wound. With a fingertip placed where his earlobe should have been, his heart skipped a beat. He realized that the raw flesh at the bottom of his ear was supposed to be connected to the lobe. With the flow of blood slowing came the realization that he had come within less than an inch of death. Still slightly disoriented with all that had happened to him, he begins laughing hysterically. It was the best thing that the injured man could have done, for in his disarray, he did not notice the beam of light approach behind him. The shooters moved casually now, knowing that there was at least one person that may still be alive, for these creatures do not laugh. A few more steps as two men armed with hunting rifles and flashlights approach the injured man. He is still laughing.

Please, lie still, said the younger of the two marksmen.

Tired and out of breath, the injured man’s reply is a simple sigh and nod.

Mouse, calls the younger one, What’s the damage?

The small frail man addressed as Mouse is guided by the older marksman in his wheelchair to the side of a small cot. The cot was set against the wall next to the door that led down from the abandoned ranger tower. The ranger station towered at three stories, overlooking the vegetation at the highest point, on a plateau in the center of the large forest. The small room contains a large table overflowing with newspapers and other articles related to the speculation over the few days, all gathered around a laptop. At the farthest end of the room, taking up the wall opposite of the door, was the communication controls for the ranger station.