Z Eternal: The Z Infection, #1

By Griffin Carmichael

Sheriff Brody Johansen is overworked, under-budgeted and falling in love with one of his deputies. So the last thing he needs is to find grave robbers have struck an out-of-the way cemetery.

What he discovers about the missing bodies links them to a mysterious lab that set up in his county a few years earlier. Before he knows how it's all tied together, he's faced with a situation he can hardly believe:  an infection is spreading, turning anyone in its path into mindless, flesh-craving freaks.

Brody joins forces with a scientist from the lab and a shady man who worked for the lab's owners to fight the rising tide of the undead—and his feelings for the unobtainable woman under his command. They might have a future together after all, if they can survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Guthrie Press
• Release date: Jun 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386629504

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Night had fallen before he could call it a day and head back to the station. It was business as usual since the county had cut funding for the sheriff’s department, causing him to have to cut four deputies from the force. It had been one of the hardest things he’d had to do as sheriff, and Brody Johansen still flushed with anger whenever he thought about it.

He was a little hot under the collar of his starched and pressed uniform shirt because he shouldn’t be out patrolling, working twelve hours and more at a stretch. It is what it is, Brody mused. A trite phrase, and probably out of fashion, as was most of his vocabulary.

He was passing the old cemetery out by the abandoned railroad line, the edge of his patrol route, when movement beyond the rusted gate caught Brody’s eye. Since there hadn’t been a burial there in nearly ten years, he knew there shouldn’t be anyone out there, especially at night. The caretaker wasn’t exactly diligent about keeping the place up, so it probably wasn’t him wandering around out there.

Brody sighed and slowed, taking the turn onto an ancient gravel road that was more pot hole than rock. The sheriff’s department Crown Vic needed new shocks—and tires, if he was keeping score—so he had to take it slowly, easing into and out of the dips in the road.

By the time he’d gotten up to the gate, Brody couldn’t see any more activity. He got out of the car anyway, pulling his big Maglight out of the holder on the dash. He’d need all the light he could get, since there were no city lights out this far, and the trees surrounding the old graveyard blocked most of the moonlight.

Brody hitched his belt and settled his service weapon on his hip, adjusting the holster until it rested comfortably in the usual spot against his thigh. He’d nearly worn a hole where the gun rubbed against the side of his pants, and more than one pair had been patched so often the seamstress at the laundry joked about not being sure there was any of the heavy twill material left to work with.

With his hat firmly in place, Brody clicked on the heavy flashlight and turned it towards the graves beyond the gate. He could see that one side of the iron monstrosity was nearly rusted through, leaning drunkenly against its mate. The crisp fall air made him shiver, or at least, that’s what he told himself caused the brief shaking in his big frame.

As Brody got closer to the cemetery entrance, he shined the light through the gate, sweeping it around the old headstones. Many were listing to one side or another, and some had broken over the years. Most would be blank, or nearly so, worn out from decades of exposure to the elements.

He’d come out and chased off teens over the years, cutting short their drinking and necking parties among the remains of the dead. It seemed creepy to him, but he’d done his share of stupid stuff when the raging hormones of youth took over. He understood the urges that could overwhelm a kid at times like that.

There hadn’t been any calls like that for years, though, not since the Internet and video game systems kept most kids indoors killing and fighting against  virtual people. It didn’t mean there wasn’t some mischief going on out here, in the middle of nowhere.

His polished boots crunched over the thin layer of gravel as he approached the old gates. For the briefest moment, something nearly made him turn around and run back to the patrol car. Brody couldn’t have said what it was that came over him, only that the feeling was so strong that he was in the act of turning on his heel when the foremost part of his brain stopped him.

What the hell was that about?

Brody shook himself and moved closer to the gate. He turned the light on the chain and padlock that held the gates closed. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t been disturbed for many years. The layer of rust and dirt on them told him that. So if someone were inside messing around the graves, they’d gotten in somewhere else.

The sheriff stepped back and turned the light to either side, studying the low wall that ran in either direction. It wasn’t very high, more of a symbolic barrier than an actual physical deterrent to trespassing. Any relatively fit person could scale it easily, and leave no sign they’d been there.

Brody let the flashlight fall lower, studying the gravel surface of the road, as well as the overgrown verges to either side. He couldn’t see any sign that humans had turned in either direction to go around. Maybe they’d come up on the cemetery from some other direction. There wasn’t another access road into the place, he knew from experience. The dead and the living came in through the gates, and the living left the same way.

The moon had risen enough to brighten the area where Brody stood, and he clicked off the light, waiting until his eyes adjusted. Another look around the area confirmed that whatever was going on inside the burial ground, it had come from somewhere other than the road.

Which meant someone had taken pains to get into the cemetery unnoticed.

What anyone could want with a bunch of old graves, many of them nearly two centuries old, was beyond him. There wouldn’t be much reason to dig up any bodies, as most people buried here had been poor, workers from the various mills, factories and farms in the area. None of them would have been interred with much of any value.

Brody had a sudden memory of reading about body snatchers, but he shrugged that off. Any bodies in these graves would have likely long turned to dust, useless for any scientific purpose.

As the sheriff stood thinking, he heard a noise from deep in the cemetery. It sounded like voices kept low, but not enough for his excellent hearing to miss. Brody held his breath and listened to the silence, which was only broken by the croaking of frogs somewhere behind him. There must be enough water for them to live in, he guessed, waiting as the ribbet-ribbet sounded in the still air.

Just as he was about to chalk it up to his imagination, he could hear a muttered curse. It sounded like it was further away than the previous voices, but still loud enough to carry.

Brody turned right and jumped over the shallow ditch, heading towards the wall on that side. He’d seen a fallen branch from one of the many trees—no doubt planted to shade the departed in their eternal rest—that he thought was thick enough to give him a boost over the stone wall.

He tromped through the weeds and fallen leaves of many years, smelling the richness of the decomposition. It would be fertile soil to grow in, if anyone had dared to disturb the dead just beyond the wall.

Brody had been as quiet as he could be, and when he went over the wall he was sure no sound had betrayed him. He clamped one hand over the head of the flashlight, using his fingers to filter the light to the bare minimum he needed to see in the gloom. It wouldn’t be wise to trip over a headstone and crack his head. No one would think to look for him for at least an hour, and then they’d have to trace his route. He’d probably die before anyone found him.

It was slow going, having to watch every step in the near-darkness. He could hear muffled sounds every so often, so he knew whoever had invaded the old place was still there. It seemed like he was getting closer, the sounds a little louder as he wended his way around the old stones.

Brody had gotten about halfway through the cemetery by his best guess, listening as the sounds got gradually louder, when he tripped over something and went tumbling down a short hill, rolling until he dropped several feet. He landed with a hard thump that took his breath away in one huge gasp that didn’t quite make it into a scream.

Still, it was loud enough that the intruders must have heard him. There was a sudden silence as he lay in what he realized was an open grave, surrounded by the powdery remains of a pine coffin. His head hurt, and Brody’s vision wavered and swooped. He gingerly felt around the back of his head, until a probing finger jabbed into a horribly soft spot that pulsed a harsh stab of pain out through his eyes. Darkness descended.

* * *

Brody came to lying awkwardly on the remnants of some poor soul’s coffin, head pounding. He was so cold he thought he might be dead himself. Only the sharp pain that pierced his head and the growing aches from his fall convinced him he wasn’t so lucky.

With a groan and several curse words he’d promised his mother to never use, Brody managed to get up and pull himself out of the opened grave. It wasn’t until he was standing on the disturbed grass opposite a huge mound of dirt that he realized there hadn’t been a body down there with him.

He lifted an arm and tilted his wrist until the waning moonlight lit the face of his father’s old watch. The thing was a tough as the old man had been, and was still steadily ticking away. According to the blur he could make out of the face, he’d been out nearly an hour.

Brody groaned, not bothering to keep his voice down. If anyone was still around the cemetery, they already knew he was there, so no need for stealth. Besides, he was sure he was alone now. Only the dead had stuck around to keep him company, minus one, apparently.

He staggered a little as he began to search around the grave until he found the huge, heavy Mag light. Like the watch, the well-made flashlight was still working, shining a strong beam that lit the night like a small sun. He swept the light around the opened grave, taking in the pile of excavated dirt, the remains of the old coffin, and the general disarray of the area. Whoever had taken the body hadn’t been worried about the theft being discovered.

It occurred to him that the culprits might have meant to come back and fill the hole in, try to disguise their actions in the night. He likely scared them off, lying six feet down, dressed in the uniform of an organization that could make things very unpleasant if they’d been caught.

It wasn’t important now, he decided. What he needed to do was to get moving and warm up a little, take the chill off. The time to check out what was going on was in the morning, after he had some sleep and a large amount of caffeine.

Brody looked around at the surrounding graves, noting that none of them had been disturbed. He wondered what was so significant about this particular burial. Brody turned the light on the tombstone, noting the name and dates inscribed there.

Charles Aloysius McDaniel

b 1841 - d 1865

Beloved Son

Wait For Us

He realized the person who had rested in peace for so long had likely died in the Civil War, judging by his date of death and his age, twenty-four years old. There were many cemeteries in the area filled with the bodies of men who had followed their hearts to one side or the other of that great battle. Nothing indicated which side McDaniel had served.

It didn’t matter, really, Brody decided. Somebody had seen fit to rob the grave and take the moldering remains that had lain in that simple pine box for so long. It didn’t make any sense. What use would old bones and rotten burial clothes be to anyone? They were too far past any medical use, and what scientific value would the bones of a lost son be to anyone but his family, if any remained?

It was a puzzle, for sure. But Brody was too tired, cold and hurt to care at that point. He carefully made his way to the main road that ran through the cemetery in a winding path before meeting back up with itself near the gate. He needed to get out of this place and get back to the sheriff’s department. The knock on his head was worrisome, since it had kept him out for such a long period. He thought he was lucky whoever was stealing bodies hadn’t decided to leave him down in that foul hole, covering him up with the excavated earth.

Brody needed to get that wound looked at, and report what was going on out here. The local district attorney would probably launch an investigation into it, though it probably wouldn’t go anywhere and would only add to his department’s work load. But something had to be done, no matter how fruitful the results might be.

When he got to the gate, Brody was stumped for a moment as he eyed the chain and lock still firmly in place. It finally occurred to him that he’d have to climb back over the wall to get to his patrol car so he could finally get out of this place.

He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. Damn it. He did not need this, on top of everything else he had to do. None of his deputies would be happy about it either, but there was nothing he could do about that. More unpaid overtime to push on them.

The one thought that spurred him on, made him ignore the need to lie down and sleep for two days was the desire to see that whoever was desecrating these grave paid for what they’d done.

He didn’t think anyone would mind if he exacted some justice for himself.

CHAPTER TWO

The small, unmarked cargo van passed through towns and rural communities without drawing any attention. It was so bland and normal, anyone asking about it would have gotten blank looks and head shakes. Nope. Haven’t seen it.

Tinted windows hid the driver and any passengers from curious eyes. Nothing was done to give anyone cause to think the van was anything other than a what it was:  a person going about their normal life.

It was still dark when the van turned onto a small entrance road, twenty miles from the graveyard where Sheriff Brody Johansen was lying on the rotten coffin of a long-forgotten Civil War soldier. The driver was in no hurry even now, being only minutes away from delivering his cargo.

The night guard at the gate didn’t stop the van, knowing from experience that is was expected, even at this early hour. He only used his key to activate the gate control and turned the other way as it slowly eased to the side. The van went through at the same, steady pace. The driver didn’t spare a glance at the attendant, not caring who was working this quiet night.

Within minutes, the driver had driven around the back of the facility the gate guarded, and turned to back onto a loading dock. He gathered his paperwork—it didn’t matter what job he had, there was always paperwork—and exited, easing the door closed behind him. It was a habit now ingrained in his muscle memory. In fact, he was quiet no matter what he was doing.

If only the same could be said for his latest partner, who was grumbling and scratching his ample ass as he got out. The door on that side closed with a creak and a bang. The driver only winced. It did no good to say anything, so he kept his curses to himself and headed for the steps a few feet away. One day, he vowed, he would put an end to that fool. Hopefully, it would be before the idiot got them caught.

Time to see the