Midland

By Scott Alan Wade

Hiding out from a world overrun by the living dead, fifteen-year-old Samantha (Sam) Grace has grown up on an isolated mountain-top farm.  It's been a hard, difficult life, but now she must care for her gravely ill mother as well as her younger brothers and sister.  Her only chance to save her mother's life is to ride to nearby Las Vegas, a city teeming with hundreds of thousands of the dead.  However, the zombies are the least of her worries.  With terror lurking in every shadow, where can she go to hide?  Is there anyone left alive to help?   What can she do when her bullets run out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886547481

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Midland

Scott Alan Wade

Copyright © 2023 Scott Alan Wade

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-746-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-748-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Chapter 1

The Farm

It's not that I hate the night. After all, the dark can be so peaceful and quiet: almost serene. At least, it could be. No, it's what the night does. How the growing dark creeps across the mesa until it finally covers our farm in ever-deepening shadows—shadows that drain our world of color and plunge it into ever-darkening shades of gray. Shadows that envelope you, surround you, and strip you of both life and love—shadows that you must confront alone.

With the shadow's dark comes the quiet, and it's the quiet that's the worst! As the shadows cover the world, the sounds diminish until silence prevails. In the dark and silence, the terror begins because you know… You just know that the quiet will end in…in…

Sam sat at the parlor table, mentally struggling for the right word to complete her thought, but none immediately came to mind. Every day she wrote in her journal, though calling it a journal was truly a stretch. Not a book or even a diary, it was just a collection of unbound paper she had found years ago. Among these loose scraps of paper, she collected and recorded her daily thoughts and observations. Unfortunately, some days her thoughts didn't easily flow into words on a page, so being unable to find the right word, Sam gathered and neatly folded her journal's paper and then put them away on the shelf next to the fireplace.

At fifteen, Sam, short for Samantha, was hardly a woman—more of a grown child but aged years beyond her fifteen birthdays. She was tall, only an inch or so shy of six feet, and strong from years of hard work. With her dark-brown hair cropped short (it seemed silly to her to have long hair on a farm), without any makeup to augment her features (she'd heard of it but had never seen any), and wearing men's-style canvas pants and shirt, Sam appeared more like a boy than a girl on the verge of womanhood. Only her girl curves, which, over the last year, had progressively jutted out under the drab brown shirt were any indication of her gender. Punctuating her far from feminine appearance were her mannerisms which weren't ladylike at all, but that was due more to being raised with the relentlessly hard work of farm life.

Late afternoon was schooltime at their farmhouse, and, while Sam struggled with her journal, her twin brothers and younger sister were all sprawled on the parlor's dirt floor, taking turns reading from the family's limited supply of books. The twins, Billy and Cal, were both twelve and, just like their older sister, precocious beyond their years, or, as their mother would often say, twelve going on twenty, them two! Both boys had blond hair the color of the farm's winter wheat, but you could hardly see their hair's light color for all the dirt and grime from the day's chores. Sitting next to the boys was their younger sister, Katelyn (Kate or Katey for short), who struggled to see the words on the page as her brother took turns reading aloud. Not surprisingly, nine-year-old Katey was less interested in reading from the book than returning to play with the scrap fabric rag doll her mother had made for her three seasons ago. From the start, both parents were committed to their children having some basic education, primarily reading and writing. However, with their father deceased and their mother desperately sick, the children still gathered in the parlor each afternoon to study, only now under the watchful eye of their older sister.

Sam listened to her sibling's half-hearted reading, noting their less-than-adequate efforts, but just couldn't bring herself to intercede—her heart wasn't in it today. As she watched their efforts, a whining and pawing at her leg demanded attention—her dog, Bailey. Completely blind in both eyes, Sam's cherished dachshund Bailey scratched at her right leg, expecting to be picked up. While a blind dog was more of a burden than a benefit in the harsh world of farm life, Sam and Bailey had formed a bond so deep that her mother and father had finally relented letting her keep the dog. True to that deep relationship, Bailey would often trot along at Sam's side as she worked in the field. Another scratch at her foot and Sam gave in and picked up the dog.

All right, girl, you can come up, but just for a moment. The dog immediately snuggled down on her master's lap, sighing with contentment as she did, and while the dog found comfort, so did Sam—the dog's presence brought both a smile and a short-lived moment of peace.

Unfortunately, work on a farm is never more than a few moments away as Sam noted the lengthening shadows through the window, signaling night's approach. All right, that's it for today. Billy! Cal! Dark's a-comin'. Time to git' on with yur night chores. You too, Katey. Like every evening, they all had tasks assigned that had to be completed before night fell, so, with minor grumbling, mostly about how hard they had already worked during the day, all three children got to their feet and trudged outside the farmhouse into the rapidly dwindling light. They had a lot to do, and it all had to be done before dark.

Their farmhouse was nothing special, just a mud stucco structure with a flat timber roof. The mud stucco, though rough and unattractive in appearance, had the consistency of hardened cement, making it very durable and equally important, a very strong structure. The house was not large by any means, with just enough inner space for a parlor and three bedrooms. Despite a name that conveyed elegance, the parlor was anything but stylish—more a functional combination of both a kitchen and a sitting room. One wall of the parlor was dominated by a stone fireplace that provided both the means for cooking meals as well as heating the farmhouse. Nearby, a wooden table with four chairs was provided for family dining, but, as there always seemed to be more people than chairs, a wooden tree stump cut chair-high functioned as an extra seat. A wooden sideboard cabinet next to the fireplace functioned as a pantry for their meager foodstuff. Next to the hearth, a lone rocking chair provided the room's sole seat of comfort. Also notable was a threadbare woven rug, a favored possession of their mother's, which covered the parlor floor and provided the room's only color. Clearly out of place, a rough-hewn wood ladder leaned against the parlor's far wall, but this ladder didn't lead to a second-story room, loft, or hidden bedroom. Instead, the ladder appeared to dead-end at the ceiling with the rungs stopping just inches below the timbers and thatch. On closer examination, the ladder led to a small hatch recessed into the ceiling that allowed access onto the roof, though its purpose was far from clear. Overall, with these scant furnishings, the parlor was more functional than comfortable.

Down a short hallway from the parlor were the house's three bedrooms. Small in size, each bedroom was no more than ten feet by ten feet with walls constructed of the same earth-colored mud stucco, and each had a compacted dirt floor just like the main room. While their mother had wanted a wooden plank floor installed, after all these years, it hadn't ever been done—never was time to do it, their father had often said. Each room also had one small window that let daylight inside, at least when the window's heavy wooden storm shutters weren't closed. Finally, the house's remaining furnishings were as austere as the structure with shelves, benches, and bed frames all rough-hewn from wood scraps.

The only other structure of the farm was the adjoining barn and chicken coop which both stood next to the house. Larger and taller than the house, the barn was also built with mud stucco and provided a nighttime refuge for the farm's few animals—two horses, a cow and her calf, and a goat—critical animals that provided needed food for the family or necessary muscle for the farm's field. Finally, next to the barn was a small chicken coop.

Billy! Cal! Sam shouted. You quit a-lollygagging, and git' on with it! As they walked outside the house, the boys immediately engaged in their usual roughhousing, bumping into each other harder and harder, cussing each other as they did. With an audible sigh at their sister's reproach, the boys went to their chores, beginning with tending to the outdoor fire.

Just outside of the farm's front door was the firepit. Well, not really a pit but more of an outdoor fireplace that was strategically placed to provide a ready source of the fire. Equally important to the fire pit's positioning was its construction—stone and mortar wrapped around the pit, hiding the light of the flames from all directions other than the front door. Inside the pit, the boys built a small fire. Nearby, they positioned long wooden branches wrapped on one end with dried moss, ready to function as torches when lit. When finished preparing the fire, the boys tended to the family's dogs.

Located at all four corners of the farmhouse's yard were ramshackle wooden pens for the family's four large dogs. These structures, more like cages than pens, had rough-hewn boards covering all sides including the top and were constructed to both keep the dogs in and to keep things out. The dogs, nothing more than mixed-breed mutts, protested slightly as they were led from the freedom of the yard where, only minutes before, they had been happily sprawled, as dogs will only do—sleeping, dreaming. Realizing that they were pen-bound, the dogs cowered, whimpered, and dragged their feet as each hoped for a reprieve.

Ah, come on, boy! ‘T'aint so bad. Billy lovingly grabbed the dog, a brown-and-white shepherd mix, and carried it to the pen and secured it inside. Reaching inside the pen, he rubbed the dog behind the ear and offered it a bone he had hidden in his pocket. All right, Champ, you know the story. You smell something, you give us a bark, and I'll be out here lickety-split! He gave the dog one more loving hug, then secured the pen's door. Between Billy and his brother, they finished securing the remaining three dogs, each into their separate pens. Their only challenge was the last dog, the most skittish of the bunch, which tried to run away, but the boys gave chase and finally corralled it into a pen.

With the dogs secured, the boys did one last check of the chest-high piles of dry wood stacked about ten yards away from the dog pens. After restacking, a couple of pieces of wood that had fallen to the ground, the boys' outside work was done. However, one more task awaited them back inside the farmhouse.

While the boys finished up their outside chores, Sam and her sister had to gather up the other animals and secure them for the night. Like the dogs, the farm animals protested slightly but ultimately were secured behind the heavy wooden doors of the barn. With that done, the girls secured the chickens into their coop next to the barn. Sam knew the animals weren't pets; instead, the animals were critical to the family's survival, so even after Kate had finished shutting and latching the heavy barn door, Sam took an extra moment to double-check. Yep, it's good and secure, she thought, though checking her younger sister's work caused the child to wrinkle her nose with dismay. With the animals secured, Sam returned to the farmhouse and swung closed the heavy wooden shutters that hung outside each of the farmhouse's windows. As the shutters swung closed, Kate latched them securely from inside the house. The kitchen and parlor room shutters were unique in that they had what appeared to be a cross cut into them. An old settler's trick, the cross had no religious significance; instead, the cross-shaped hole allowed for unfettered shooting from inside the farmhouse. On the inside of the shutter, an inner plank was attached that could be rotated to block the light from inside showing through these shooting holes. With a tug on the shutters from outside, Sam checked the farm's windows, assuring each was solidly secured. After assuring that the house, barn, animals, and yard were ready, with a last glance over her shoulder at the dwindling sunlight, Sam pulled the large front door shut and secured it with a plank that slid across the inside frame.

Hey! Chores ain't done till they're done! Billy! Cal! Get to it! Sure enough, as Sam entered the farmhouse, she found the boys already roughhousing on the kitchen floor. Don't they ever stop? she thought, but she was to have none of it, not with sunset only minutes away.

Aw, Sam! He started! Billy protested, but Sam cut him off with a look that would freeze water. Billy muttered to himself but let go of his brother, and the two boys got to their feet to finish their last nighttime chore—loading and staging the farm's few guns. Two Winchester repeater rifles, a single-shot hunting rifle, a shotgun, and two .32-caliber Colt handguns were stored unceremoniously in a small cabinet near the kitchen's pantry. Guns near children? In many places, guns so readily handy to young children would be unthinkable, but out of necessity on their farm, all of the children were skilled in both the care and use of guns. Both boys made short work of loading each weapon, placing the repeater rifles and the shotgun at the ready next to the front door. With the hunting rifle placed next to the ladder, the boy's chores were finally done and already whining for dinner.

While the boys were finishing up outside, the two girls started dinner, with Katey trying her best to show off her developing culinary skills. With great pride, she soon had a pot of farm stew boiling inside the kitchen's fireplace. Potatoes, carrots, some greens, and with the remains of the rabbit the boys had shot the day before, the stew was hardy and filling—just what they all needed after a long day's toil in the fields.

With Katey in the kitchen and the boys loading guns, Sam went to check on her mother in the rear bedroom. Even as she entered, Sam could already hear the rasp of her mother's breathing punctuated with thick, wet-sounding coughs every minute or so. Damn, that sounds even worse than this morning, Sam thought. At her bedside, Sam laid her hand softly on her mother's forehead. Hotter than it was this morning… And she doesn't seem to be sweating. That's bad!

Billy, Cal! Fetch water quick, and bring a rag! The boys could hear the stress in their sister's voice and wisely brought the water without comment or complaint.

While the boys and Katey ate their dinner, Sam spent the next two hours mopping her mother's forehead, shoulders, and chest with the cool water from the farm's well in an effort to bring down her temperature. The fever finally abated, at least somewhat, but throughout her time at bedside, her mother never awoke. Mama's so beautiful, she thought. Tall and strong too. But Mama shouldn't be like…this! The ravages of illness had almost completely obscured her mother's beauty, leaving her gaunt and emaciated, with her long blond hair matted and dirty. In addition, while their mother had always been the family's source of strength, that inner vigor could not be easily seen with her in such a condition. She had been sick and getting progressively worse over the last two weeks, and now that she was unconscious, that power and cohesiveness, that basic strength she provided the family, was sorely missed.

With her mother's fever addressed, at least for now, Sam finally returned to the kitchen, spooned up some of the remaining stew into her tin cup, and sat at the table, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. Mama's sick and getting worse! Why she ain't hardly moved for days, and she's even wetting herself like Kate did when she was a baby. She pushed aside the half-eaten bowl of food and hung her head as emotion washed over her. Whadda I do? Whadda I do? I just don't know. Damn, I miss Papa! He'd know what to do. Tears welled up in her eyes as emotion took control. Even though they were busy with play, the other children couldn't help but notice their sister's tears, and, without any words spoken, they all quickly surrounded Sam, enveloping her in a needed group hug.

It's okay, Sam, Katey said. It's…it's gonna be okay. I just know it.

She wanted to ask back, How do you know? However, Sam knew better than to challenge the younger child's beliefs. Just as quickly as it arrived, the moment was gone, and the boys and Kate returned to their playtime at the fireside.

Dark had fully consumed the farm, but from outside the house, no light could be seen; nothing in the house's exterior would betray its existence to any approaching eyes. In fact, by design, the house itself blended into the endless blackness of nighttime on the mesa. Safely secured inside the house, the children busied themselves next to the fireplace, its fire providing the only light in the parlor. While Kate played with her doll, Billy drew on a flat rock on the fireplace using a makeshift pencil made from a stick and the fire's charcoal. Nearby, Cal was whittling on a hunk of wood with his knife. Seated in the old rocking chair next to him, Sam stretched and put down the pages of her journal and noted Cal's work.

So…whatcha makin' this time? Cal had some artistic skill, at least with a knife.

I'm carvin' a fierce gunfighter, like me, he exclaimed.

Ha! Billy roared loudly. If you were any more skittish, you'd be wearin' a dress.

Why, you… Cal's face turned bright red with anger. I'll give you a scar to remind you which one of us is tougher. Cal loved his knives, and his favorite one which always hung at his side was now unsheathed, its ten-inch blade glistening in the firelight. With eyes narrowed to slits and revenge on his mind, he advanced toward his brother. While neither of the boys was a coward, their egos wouldn't let either back down from a confrontation. However, right now Sam ruled the house, and she would have none of it.

I swear I'll whup ya' both if ya' don't settle down! Cal, put that knife away and go on back to your whittlin'. Billy, you sit down too, and mind your mouth. Cal was already grumbling, cussing under his breath, but with Sam's last words, he too sat down and put the confrontation behind him, if by appearance only.

At least for now, he thought. I'll get that skunk, I will.

As if Sam had read his mind, she again intervened, You'll put it behind you and settle down! Cal, you unnerstand? With a nod of his head, it was finally over, and Sam returned to her journal.

Several hours into the night, while the kids played a game with rocks on the dirt floor, Sam continued her evening struggle with her writing. While thankfully it had been a quiet evening, bedtime was fast approaching. In the room's quiet, sadness suddenly struck her. I wish Mama was in here with us, she thought. I miss how some evenings just before bedtime she would sing to us…, lifting our hearts even in the darkest moment. She has always taken such good care of us, but surely she isn't able to now! With a shake of her head, not noticed by the other children, she forced the dark thoughts from her mind before sadness overwhelmed. Well…, time for bed.

Sam had just told the children to put on their nightshirts when a long howl startled them all into an instant silence. She held her breath, hoping that it was a coyote or some other animal, but after several seconds, the howl became repeated frantic barking. It was their dogs! No… No! Not now! Sam's mind was instantly plunged into terror. Why now? After all of these months. Damn, damn, damn! For several long seconds, the barking continued as she sat paralyzed at the table, the children's eyes all fixed on her. I've got to do something, they are all counting on me. Think, think! Unfortunately, in her paralysis, both words and actions eluded.

It was Billy's single word asked in a pleading tone that finally forced action: Sam?

Ah…, a'right. You all know what to do! Billy, Cal, go quick and git' them fires lit, then head on back here. You cover each other as you go! Kate…, you're at the door with the scattergun, but you watch what you aim at! The two boys grabbed their rifles and were at the door. Before they left, Sam grabbed their shoulders in one last moment of human connection. Boys! Go quick, be safe. I'll be watchin' out for you from above. With that, Kate removed the board that secured the door, and the boys were instantly out, heading first to the firepit.

With the boys out the door, Sam turned to her sister. I'm goin' on top. You see any of them critters comin' close, you shoot. Understand?

Yes, Sam, she answered meekly.

Without another word, Sam strapped a gun holster to her waist with its six-shooter loaded and at the ready, grabbed the hunting rifle and a handful of bullets, and climbed the ladder to the top of the farmhouse and into the night air. Scrambling across the roof to the edge, she dropped down, resting her gun's barrel on a pile of rocks carefully positioned to steady her aim. The rifle had a rudimentary scope, giving it a slight magnification, just right for long-distance shooting.

All right, you bastards, let's see where you are, she said quietly to herself. Through the rifle's scope, she scanned the distance, but with the moonlight obscured by clouds, nothing could be seen. However, a dog's bark to her right was a strong indication that something was there. Louder now, and at a more fevered pitch, the barking warbled over the farm's yard—a continued reminder of danger. Although she intently scanned the outskirts of the yard, Sam still saw nothing.

*****

Having done it many times over the years, Billy and Cal knew the routine, but it never got any easier. Billy was out the front door first, his rifle still slung over his back, and Cal followed close behind, his rifle drawn close to his cheek and his eye on the sight, scanning the yard for targets as he moved, but none were in sight. Their first task was retrieving the torch sticks they had so carefully prepared. Thrusting several deep into the burning firepit, in seconds, the torches were themselves aflame and burning brightly. Holding a burning torch in each hand, Billy sprinted across the farmhouse yard toward the first bonfire and used both torches to light the kindling at several locations. The dried wood instantly caught fire, with the flames quickly engulfing the bonfire, providing growing light illuminating the almost pitch-black farmyard. With one fire lit, the boys now turned their attention to the second bonfire—the one nearer to the frantic barking which now was approaching a fevered pitch, and in that pen was Billy's cherished dog.

That's Champ! Them varmints are goin' for Champ! Throwing caution to the winds, Billy raced toward the other bonfire, quickly distancing himself from his brother.

Dammit', Billy, wait for me, Cal pleaded as he ran after his brother. That fool's gonna get us both killed!

With the light of the torches providing meager illumination, Billy headed straight for the dog pen, and what he saw took his breath away—two zombies, critters as they had always been called by the kids on the farm, were reaching into the pen, trying to grab the terrified dog. The closest one, still dressed in ragged clothes, had finally gotten hold of the poor animal, and, even as the dog struggled, the creature slowly pulled it toward its mouth and waiting teeth. You put him down, you bastard! Billy swung the torch like a club, hitting the dead man in its face. For reasons no one really knew, zombies were afraid of fire, and whether it was the heat of the flame or some lone remaining instinct of self-preservation, the zombie dropped the dog and backed two steps away. Unfortunately, it's craving for flesh was greater than any fear of fire, and, with a gurgling moan, it staggered toward Billy—a more desirable meal for the zombie. The second zombie, still wearing the remnants of a tattered suit complete with cummerbund, also turned and began to move toward Billy. Undeterred, Billy advanced on the dead men, wildly swinging the torch over his head in a blinding arc of flame, and drove the zombies backward as he did.

While Billy held the two zombies at bay, Cal finally arrived at his brother's side, and his gun sprang to life, shooting the first zombie through the forehead, spraying decayed brains out of the back. As they always do, with the zombie's brains destroyed, it slumped to the ground—the dead finally…dead. Cal cocked his repeater rifle and readied for the next shot, but before he could pull the trigger, Billy sprinted right up to the second zombie and shoved the burning torch at the creature's tattered clothes. The flames easily spread across the old suit, illuminating a face that was mangled and missing chunks of flesh. As the flames spread across its body, a loud moan, the only sound the creatures ever make, emerged from its mouth as it twisted back and forth trying to elude the growing flames. While the zombie twisted and contorted, Billy leaped forward and kicked it squarely in the chest, shoving it toward the bonfire. Teetering at first, the zombie finally fell backward, landing on the dried wood, and instantly set the bonfire ablaze. With the two zombies dead, Billy and Cal looked to each other, both smiling with relief, but in the growing light from the second bonfire, only now did they see their peril—there were not just two zombies; there were many, many more staggering toward them, all hungry, all intent on flesh.

*****

With her eyes now fully adjusted to the minimal light, from her rooftop perch, Sam watched as her brothers lit the first bonfire and moved toward the second. Shit… Damn. Damn! She saw the two walking dead at almost the same time as her younger brothers. Quickly bringing the gun's scope to her eye, she chambered a round and took aim, but Cal beat her to it, shooting the first zombie in the head. Even in the minimal light of Billy's torch, through the gun's scope, she saw the rotting flesh explode from the zombie and watched as it crumpled to the ground—immobile, lifeless, although in these last few years, it had been far from truly alive. She now took aim on the second zombie only to see Billy light it on fire and then foolishly kick it onto the stacked woodpile of the bonfire. I swear that boy's got piss for brains, she thought. He shouldna' got that close! Just as she completed that thought, the growing light from the bonfire illuminated dozens of the dead, all surrounding and stumbling slowly toward the two boys.

Billy, Cal…, run! Run! Sam screamed as loud as she could, but even before the words were spoken, the boys were already backing away from the advancing zombies. Cal, his gun still ready, chambered a round and fired first, hitting a middle-aged zombie still wearing the tattered remains of clothing that might have once been the height of fashion. However, the shot went low, striking the creature in the chest. Their papa had told them over and over, You have to shoot 'em in the head. Shooting them anywhere else won't do any good. Just as their father's advice had predicted, the zombie staggered back several steps and instinctually glanced down at the gaping hole in its chest, but its constant and unrelenting hunger prevailed, and once again, it lumbered toward Cal. While Cal cocked his gun, a shot rang out from Sam's rifle back on the farmhouse roof, its scope's crosshairs perfectly aligned on the zombie's skull. Brains exploded from the opposite side of the skull, and it collapsed on the ground, finally and terminally immobile. With that one zombie down, he continued to back away, trying to retreat to the house.

Billy unslung the rifle from his shoulder, cocked, and readied it for action while he followed his brother back toward the house. Two zombies, both large men over six feet tall, quickly cut off Billy's retreat and now advanced toward him. Five feet of separation quickly shrank to nothing as the zombies closed to a killing distance, ready to rip and render skin and flesh. As they reached for him, Billy ducked under one of the zombie's outstretched arms, dropped to one knee, and brought the rifle's sight up to the nearest creature. Looming over him, he could see the dead man's face—tattered and ravaged, missing chunks of skin and an ear, but still sporting a mouth full of yellow teeth. He pulled the trigger, and his target's head exploded. Cocking the repeater rifle again, he now aimed for the second zombie, but as he pulled the trigger, instead of the bullet's report, he only heard an impotent click—the gun had jammed! Goddamn it, he swore as he struggled to clear the jammed bullet from the gun's firing chamber, but even as he did, the several zombies he had first seen had now grown to over a dozen, surrounding him and blocking all escape to the house.

In his