Dead Earth: Sanctuary

By Mark Justice and David T. Wilbanks

In a world of zombies and death, a rogue band of survivors seeks a legendary haven from the walking dead in this apocalyptic sci-fi adventure.

Jubal Slate has stopped a madman controlling an undead army and survived the destruction of the aliens who decimated humanity. Now he leads a small band of survivors across the shattered landscape of America, fighting off the forces of the living and the dead.

The group is pursuing a post-apocalyptic fairy tale: a town said to be protected from the hordes. Slate follows the path to Sanctuary even as he doubts its existence. Along a journey filled with zombies, he and his companions face new enemies and find themselves pursued by the final weapon of the vanquished necros.

Is sanctuary even possible on a dead Earth? And if so, is the cost more than Jubal Slate is willing to pay? After everything he’s been through, Slate is about to discover that the worst horrors are home grown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781618680662

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A PERMUTED PRESS book

published at Smashwords.

Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-61868-065-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61868-066-2

Dead Earth: Sanctuary copyright © 2013

by Mark Justice & David T. Wilbanks.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Damonza.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

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Mark Justice dedicates this novel to Norma Kay.

Constant inspiration

David T. Wilbanks dedicates this novel to his wife, Roz.

Chapter 1

Nestor Juagdan was not a brave man. He ran through the darkened junkyard, his breath coming in gasps, sweat rolling down his soft belly. The shadows thrown by the stacks of rusting automobiles seemed alive, full of hungry creatures eager to tear him apart. He was so frightened that he pissed his pants. This was not a revelation to him. He had never been courageous. He didn’t need to be—he was a baker, for God’s sake, just like his father and grandfather.

His grandfather, Ernesto, had started a small bakery in the kitchen of his home on the outskirts of Manila before war forced him to bring his family and his business to the United States. Nestor loved to work in the kitchen, kneading the dough, creating new desserts, escaping from the world. Unfortunately, Nestor’s success as a baker, especially after moving his business to Chicago, left him little time to pursue his passion. That had been the biggest regret of his life.

Until recently. Now every other bad decision Nestor had made over the course of his 51 years on Earth paled to insignificance next to the biggest gaffe of his life. After the sky changed color and people started getting sick, after his wife and daughters died, he should have locked himself in his house and waited for the end. He was a husband without a wife, a father with no children, and a baker with no one to feed. For a time, Nestor had contemplated suicide, until he realized that killing one’s self required a certain amount of nerve, a quality that he certainly did not possess. But living in this new and deadly reality also was work for the brave. Nestor was nearly paralyzed by the hopeless choices afforded him.

The world had changed forever. The dead no longer rested in their graves. Even his family had risen. One afternoon he’d spotted Renee and one of their daughters, Sophie, wandering the street in front of their house in Lincoln Park. His first reaction was to throw open the door and call to them. There would be a great, happy reunion during which prayers of thanks would be offered for the mistake that led him to believe they had died. Perhaps this disease only mimicked death, and his family had only been in a coma until they awakened in the hospital’s morgue.

Then he got a better look at them.

Renee’s eyes were blank. There was no color to them at all, and her face was coated with blood and stringy bits of tissue. As she walked down the center of the street, her head tilted oddly to one side. She passed their large house without stopping, without even a sign of recognition.

Sophie was in worse shape. One of her eyes was missing; a thin, dark stalk dangled from the empty socket. A large swath of flesh had been torn from one side of her face, exposing part of the teenager’s jawbone and teeth. Even from a distance of fifty or sixty feet, Nestor saw the jaw working, saw the teeth come together and then part, over and over again, the mouth snapping constantly, like that of a wild animal. A killer. A monster.

The wee glimmer of hope that Nestor had allowed into his heart vanished. He pulled the curtain closed and locked the shutters. He never saw his family again.

Over the next few days, news of the hungry dead was reported across the country and even in other nations. There were only a few television stations left on the air, and the number dwindled to one within a week, then none. The electricity soon failed and the solar power backup lasted only a day. After the power failed, he found a radio in the basement, the same one he had as a boy when he and his father would spend long summer nights in the kitchen with the windows open, listening to the Cubs play. Nestor located several old batteries in a cabinet, and some of them still held enough charge to allow him to scan the frequencies for news.

He located two stations, both distant or low-powered, their signals filled with static. The announcers did not identify the stations or themselves. Both of them—a man and a woman—sounded numb, their voices slow and thick, their delivery filled with long pauses. And they both delivered the same news.

Something had been reported in the sky, something that flew through the diseased air, carrying an inhuman figure. Speculations about this figure ran the gamut of possibilities: government agents, aliens, even angels sent by God to judge mankind.

Nestor turned off the radio, removed the batteries, and smashed the plastic receiver against the hard concrete floor of his basement. He went upstairs, retrieved several loaves of bread he had baked a week earlier and a jug of water. He returned to the basement and settled in on a dusty old couch and waited. Nestor couldn’t have told anyone what he was waiting for. He didn’t know. The world had gone crazy and his life had been torn from him. He didn’t know what to do next.

The idea of an alien invasion was just as unbelievable as the arrival of Judgment Day. And he couldn’t fathom the reason the government would do this to their own country…unless the United States wasn’t the responsible party. Perhaps China had developed a superweapon and had finally taken over the world.

None of it made sense to Nestor, so he continued to wait.

They came three days later. He was awakened by the sound of breaking glass and the tread of heavy footfalls upstairs. For a few seconds, Nestor was determined to stay hidden in the basement, but in the end, he crept upstairs, carrying Sophie’s softball bat. He decided that anything would be preferable to the limbo he was living in.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Now, after months and months on the road, his life was a waking nightmare.

Nestor rounded another corner, fully expecting a zombie to be waiting for him, ready to rip out his throat and feast on his ample flesh. But no, he was facing another empty aisle in this massive cemetery of cars. His heart hammered against his ribs. If he kept running, maybe his heart would explode. That would definitely end all of his problems. Sure, he would be dead, but he would finally be free of her. He heard the shot a split second before the bullet struck next to his left foot, throwing up a small cloud of gravel. She was very close. Nestor started running again.

How he wished he had stayed in the basement of his Chicago home with his moldy bread and his jugs of water. Of course, she would still have found him—it was his fate. His penance for living a life full of love and satisfaction. Maybe this was truly the End Times. Hell had come to earth and Nestor was being made to suffer.

He’d climbed the stairs on that long-ago day, saw the broken glass on the foyer carpeting and followed the muddy footprints and the voices to his kitchen. Nestor peered around the corner, trying to stay hidden. They were going through his cabinets looking for food. Three men—two black, one white—covered in tattoos. They all carried rifles or shotguns.

And her. Their leader. It was obvious from the first in the way the men deferred to her; the way she carried herself.

She was tall and muscular, with straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She could have been attractive if only she could have hidden the cruelty on her face. She wore jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt. Her arms were decorated with intersecting black lines, like some kind of tribal artwork. A rifle was slung over her shoulder and a pistol grip stuck out of the waistband of her pants.

A loose floorboard betrayed him. It squeaked beneath his foot and the four intruders spun to face him. The woman pulled the gun from her waistband and pointed it at him. He had never seen anyone move so fast. The three men also aimed their weapons at him.

Who the fuck is this? Her voice was rough. She sounded like Nestor’s grandmother, who had smoked three packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day and died from lung cancer when he was a child.

He tried to speak, only to find his throat unwilling.

The woman stepped toward him, placing the barrel of her pistol against Nestor’s forehead. The barrel was warmer than he expected. His hand opened involuntarily and the softball bat clattered to the floor.

Last chance, she said.

I–I’m Nestor Juagdan. This is my house. His voice was scratchy. He hadn’t spoken aloud in days. Who are you? Are you with the government?

One of the black men laughed. The others joined in.

Not any more, the woman said.

Oh.

He didn’t know what else to say. He’d never had anyone break into his home before. And even the little black guy looked tougher than Nestor could ever hope to be. Well, help yourself! There’s not much here; I think I’ve eaten most of it. Just some green beans, maybe, but they’re pretty old—

Shut up! the larger black man said and the woman pressed harder against Nestor’s forehead with the muzzle of her daunting pistol, which looked like something out of one of those old-time Terminator movies. Yeah, he had wet himself back then too. And they had all laughed at him, laughed at him and pointed at the growing stain across the front of his tan corduroy pants. He’d never felt so humiliated in his whole life and he missed the respect he used to receive—even if it wasn’t all that much—back when he prepared cakes and cookies for people and they praised him and proclaimed how delicious they were.

Now he was running through a dark and dangerous cemetery for ancient cars, with the same four crazy people chasing him just like they always did whenever they got the urge to shoot their guns off and blow things up. He knew his role in this game and he played it to a T every time. In the beginning, he had protested, claiming he was now a part of their group, but they would just laugh like they always did.

He had been demoted from baker to fool in no time, and all because this crazy world had gone down the pooper, big time.

Back when he had first met them in his kitchen, they had gotten angry when they discovered he didn’t have much food around. But what did they expect? Was he supposed to run to the grocery store every day and see what they had left in stock? Oh, it would have been so easy! All he’d have to do is go out the front door, get in his car and drive through a road full of walking dead people. That was all. Piece of cake.

This fat fucker has eaten everything in the goddamn place, the white man said, slamming a cupboard door in disgust; the alligator tattoo on his bicep looked just as angry as he did. Nestor would soon find out that this rude person’s name was Ned.

The tough woman, Salina, shrugged. What do you expect? Shit, I’m hungrier than one of those undead meat-muppets out there.

Hey, the larger black man said—his name was Philly—how about we chop up the piss-pants doughboy here. He looks nice and juicy underneath all that flab. He ran his long tongue across his upper lip and then smacked his lips as if Nestor were the tastiest-looking morsel he’d ever seen in his bad-assed life.

Yeah, said Morris, the smaller black man. What do you say, chief? Can we eat him? Can we? Huh?

She smirked and finally lowered her weapon. Nah, he’d just give you guys gas. And nobody wants that.

They all laughed again, there in his kitchen, and Nestor wondered for the millionth time what he’d done to deserve this terrible fate.

Mustn’t be so selfish, he thought as, back in the present, another bullet whizzed past his face. They were getting awfully close now, almost as if they really wanted to kill him this time. The End of the World had happened to everyone, not just him. Everyone everywhere had lost family and friends, and these days it seemed that Nestor saw other groups of people only once a month or so. There just wasn’t anyone left.

Well, except for all the dead people.

Back in his kitchen, back on that fateful day that had led eventually to this one, Salina had sneered at his pissed pants and been barely able to keep her wolves from poking and prodding Nestor, trying to get a rise out of him, trying to have some fun at his expense.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself, chubby? Why should I keep my boys here from taking you outside and playing with you?"

At first Nestor had just shrugged, his mouth hanging open. All of it had been so unreal to him, it was almost like it didn’t matter what he said next. But he did eventually respond to her with the first thing that popped into his head: I’m a good cook. I’m a baker. I mean, I was a baker before—

How good are you at sucking dick? Philly said, his face serious—and mean. Always mean.

Nestor stammered again until Philly burst out laughing. And then, of course, much more laughter ensued from the whole jolly gang.

Back in the junkyard, just thinking about all this stuff was beginning to piss Nestor off. Not only could he barely see in the dark, but the anger was blinding him to any obstructions that might rise up before him, like a stray fender reaching out to smack him in the face or a sharp piece of metal poking from the ground to pierce his foot. Nestor had stepped on a rusty nail as a kid and that had been no fun, and neither was the tetanus shot that followed. Hell, now they didn’t even have tetanus shots anymore, now that the walking dead had taken over all out of doors and everything had turned bad and evil.

Panting, Nestor stopped running and turned to face his pursuers. At this point, he realized he could probably see them better than they could see him, now that it was really dark. He was hidden in the shadows among towering piles of scrap metal while they carried solar-charged flashlights attached to their rifles, the beams bobbing and weaving in the near distance, slowly approaching their prey.

Hey, where did chubs go? That was Philly, the meanest of the bunch in Nestor’s humble opinion.

Ah, he’s just around the bend, Ned said. He can’t get too far—he loves us too much.

Always with the jokes.

Nestor shrieked when he heard a clanking sound coming from behind him. He spun about and immediately began walking backwards as two shambling figures approached him from out of the gloom. Judging by the way they moved, he knew right away what they were.

There he is! said Salina’s smoky voice. And looky there; he has some new friends, come to join the party.

The beams of rifle light swung past Nestor and revealed the moaning, staggering monstrosities beyond. He never got used to those decaying faces, or the smell. Heck, one of them barely had a face anymore—just a skull with a few stringy muscles, just enough to keep its jaw clacking menacingly.

Turning his face away, the chubby man hit the dirt as Salina and her minions opened fire on the undead, which was the whole reason they had sent Nestor ahead into this abandoned junkyard in the first place—as bait. They just couldn’t seem to get enough of shooting as many people as they wanted as often as they wanted without repercussions. And, as an added bonus, they never ran out of targets; walking dead sons-of-bitches were everywhere these days. The whole world had died and come back with a hankering to eat the few remaining live bastards unlucky enough to have survived. Oh, lucky us.

Oh, lucky me.

What was left of these two recently re-deceased wasn’t worth mentioning. The gang had let loose and reduced the pair of shamblers to nothing but bones and rags. It wasn’t a fair fight, really. As he lay in the dirt, Nestor allowed himself a small smile as he pictured, for the thousandth time, a horde of the dead swarming over Salina and her boys, pulling their rifles away from them and tearing into their tattooed flesh. Imagining their terrified shrieks of pain and horror was a thing most lovely indeed.

Is there a problem here?

Nestor’s eyes snapped wide when he realized he didn’t recognize the voice that had just spoken. The beams of light on the gangs’ rifles swung round, exposing another group of folks who were packing just as much firepower as Salina’s. These strangers were six in number. More people than Nestor had seen in months. He immediately wanted to know where they had come from, and hoped and prayed that they had arrived to rescue him from the lousy company he’d been keeping. Not that these new folks would be any better, but they sure looked nicer. Heck, there was even a little girl that reminded him of his own daughters.

You mind shining those lights somewhere besides my eyes? said a hulking black man who had hideous scars criss-crossing his otherwise handsome face.

Fuck you, someone said. Nestor thought it was Philly, though he wasn’t about to turn around to check. He couldn’t take his eyes off these newcomers. Every one of them was armed, even the little girl.

No thanks, the scarred man said. I ain’t into big, ugly and stupid.

Philly uttered a sound that was part roar, part scream; Nestor heard the big man’s running feet on the gravel, and he rolled to his side, stopping up against the flattened tires of an ancient truck, hoping he was out of Philly’s warpath of destruction. He felt sorry for the man with the scarred face. Philly’s wrath was never pleasant to watch, or to receive. And Nestor felt his flicker of hope evaporate, the hope that these new arrivals might take him in, like an abused dog, and protect him from Salina’s band of killers.

The sound of shells being racked into shotguns made him look up again. One of the strangers, a white man, and a pretty woman next to him, both shouldered big, nasty-looking weapons.

The scarred man waved them away. He passed a big handgun to the little girl and she took it from him. In her other hand, she carried a small pistol.

Naw, we gonna do this old school. Right, Dopey?

Philly, now just a few yards away from the scarred man, dropped his pistol to the gravel and launched his body at his opponent. The man with the scars grabbed Philly’s wrists as they both tumbled to the ground. Nestor thought the newcomer had actually laughed as he fell.

The scarred man used his knees and Philly’s momentum to flip his attacker into the side of a wrecked van. Philly landed hard but sprang to his feet instantly. The scarred man laughed again, and charged to meet Philly. Philly swung a big, looping roundhouse punch at the newcomer’s head. The scarred man leaned back and slapped Philly’s wrist. Philly missed the scarred man, and the force of his swing caused his body to twist to the side. The newcomer unloaded a short, vicious punch to Philly’s ribs. Philly grunted, swinging his arm back at the scarred man, who danced away. Scar Face slapped Philly on the side of the face, a stinging blow that enraged Philly. Philly launched a kick at Scar Face’s crotch. The newcomer turned, catching the kick on his hip. At the same time, he wrapped a meaty hand around Philly’s ankle and raised it as high as his reach allowed. Scar Face kicked Philly’s other leg out from under him. Philly landed on his back. The scarred man knelt next to him and slapped Philly’s face again.

The humiliation of being slapped twice showed in Philly’s twisted expression. He glared at Scar Face, even as he tried to suck in enough air to replace what had been forced from his body when he’d slammed against the hard-packed ground.

The scarred man wiped away the dirt Philly’s boot had left on his hip.

Your move, bitch, he said.

Motherfucker, Philly said.

No need to get all formal, Scar Face said. I usually just go by Mother.

That’s enough. Salina made her way to the newcomers.

Nestor stood up and brushed the grime off of his clothing. His hands were covered with tiny cuts from the gravel. He sincerely hoped Salina was too busy right now to pay attention to him.

She stood over Philly, her face without expression. Finally Philly raised a hand, assuming Salina was there to help him up. Instead of taking it, she kicked him in the side, close to the same spot where Scar Face—Mother—had kicked him.

Salina spit on him, then turned to face the rest of the new arrivals.

Not cool, Mother said. He took Philly’s hand and pulled him to his feet. As soon as he was standing, Philly jerked his hand from Mother’s grip.

In addition to Mother, the white man, the woman and the little girl, the new group also included a young Asian man and a black woman who was so tall she could have been a star basketball player. Like their comrades, they were well-armed, and they both kept their attention on Salina, Ned and Morris.

Salina’s crew was outnumbered. That made Nestor feel a little better.

Salina had identified the white man as the leader of the new group, and Nestor concurred. There was something about the way he carried himself and the way the others looked at him. He wasn’t very old, certainly much younger than Nestor, yet there was weariness in his face that spoke of having witnessed many terrible things. That was something Nestor could understand.

Salina Morales. She stuck out her hand.

The man did not return the gesture.

Jubal Slate. His voice was softer than Nestor expected. It was the voice of someone who had nothing to prove. After spending months in the company of Salina and her band of cruel sociopaths, Nestor had almost forgotten that there were sometimes kinder types of people, even in this new and terrible world.

Salina dropped her hand. Okay, Jubal Slate. What kind of name is that, anyway? Did that come from the Bible or something?

Slate didn’t answer her. Mother returned to the group. The little girl returned his gun to him, and the scarred man took up position next to Slate.

O-okay, Salina said. We obviously got off on the wrong foot. I apologize for my friend, Philly. As you can probably tell, he’s a bit of an asshole.

Slate pointed at Nestor. Why was he running from you?

Salina turned to face Nestor. The savage look she gave him was easily understandable: Keep your mouth shut if you want to live. Nestor’s an old family friend. He’s brilliant, really. He lures the monsters out, and me and the boys blow up their shit. It was all his idea.

Slate gave him a hard look. Couldn’t he see that Salina lied, that Nestor was no planner of military strategy?

That true? Slate said. Now all of them—Salina’s crew and the newcomers—stared at him.

Nestor thought of the last time he was happy, the last time he felt like a man, back when he could bask in the love and adoration of his family and feel the joy that his baking brought to his many customers. He didn’t know if he would ever feel like a man again. He only knew he couldn’t go on as a terrified mouse.

She—she’s lying. They use me to draw the creatures out. If I misbehave, they threaten to kill me or let the zombies tear me apart. Please let me come with you.

Salina’s expression was a crazed blend of surprise, betrayal, and hatred. She reached for the gun at her waist.

Bad move, sister. The one who called himself Mother held his weapon against the back of Salina’s head.

Ned and Morris raised their rifles.

Slate and his crew spread out. Other than Mother, all of them aimed their guns at Salina’s crew.

Philly stood as still as a statue. His gun was several feet away on the ground.

"My friends