My Zombie Summer (Book 1): The Undead Road Read online

  Contents

  description

  title page

  dedication

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Woven

  newsletter

  acknowledgments

  about the author

  copyright

  Nothing brings the family together like a zombie apocalypse …

  Fifteen-year-old Jeremy Barnes would rather watch a zombie movie than shoot a real one, but he has no choice if his family wants to survive the end of the world. Their plan? Drive across the infected United States to a cabin in the Colorado Rockies without a scratch, but their trip takes a complicated detour in the middle of Nebraska when they find Kaylynn, a girl who can handle a baseball bat better than Jeremy can hold a .45 Beretta. And when they stumble into a sanctuary, Jeremy soon learns that Kaylynn is stronger than she looks—a deadly secret lies inside her.

  After the radio picks up a distress call from Kansas City about a possible cure, Jeremy’s parents go with a team to investigate. They never return. The only way to find their parents is for Jeremy and his sister Jewel to rely on a dangerous girl who might just turn on them at any moment.

  For my father, the smartest man I know.

  Everyone had their own idea for how the world was going to end: a nuclear war, a giant asteroid, or the latest boyband breakup. The odds seemed to favor the latter—for the girls in my class, at least—but the sad truth is that the real end of the world turned out to be something else entirely. A week after people turned, we survived on a balanced diet of old storage water, stale grape soda, and canned baked beans well beyond their best by dates until our supplies had all but run out.

  That’s when Dad picked up his car keys, and his AR-15. “Let’s hit the road!”

  Mom went upstairs to their bedroom and grabbed the 12 gauge shotgun. Jewel, my little sister, called dibs on the .22 that was laying on the dining room table. As for me, I went into the kitchen for the .45 Beretta.

  We piled into our Ford Explorer, eager to see the light of day after hiding indoors for the first week of summer. Dad turned the engine on, and then he went to manually open the garage door. When he came back, he buckled himself in and told us to do the same.

  “Can we stop at the store for some Flamin’ Hot Cheetos?” Jewel asked.

  Dad smiled as he put the gear into drive. “If it’s not too crowded.”

  We ran over a couple of them as we pulled out of the driveway. The ones who didn’t turn into squirming speed bumps chased after us, out of our cul-de-sac where I’d grown up. And I would never see it again.

  Perhaps I’d better fill you in on the details. My name is Jeremy Barnes. I’m one of the few survivors of the Vector Pandemic, and this is the story of how my family survived—for now. There’s no telling what will happen to us, not after what we’ve been through. I knew that if we wanted to survive, we had to find food, shelter, and other survivors—possibly a girlfriend.

  I was about to find much more than that . . . on the undead road.

  When Dad handed me his .45 for the first time, I didn’t know I’d use it ten minutes later.

  Her name was Cassidy Mill, the most popular girl in Sands West Middle School. She had the largest brown eyes ever, and the finest blonde hair. It wasn’t hard for her to throw every guy at school into a jealous frenzy the way she clung to boyfriends like fashion accessories. I was never one of them: boyfriend or accessory. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought to ask her out once or twice, but we never talked. We didn’t share the same classes, and she never looked at me. But when she finally did, she ran at me—but not in that way.

  Red eyes. Torn hair. Rotting skin.

  Not really my idea of a hot date.

  Three weeks later, I still couldn’t decide what hurt more: landing a headshot between the eyes of my life-long crush or the recoil that sent my butt to the ground. Both hurt, to be honest. I couldn’t let myself think of these things as human anymore. Eventually, I didn’t. I liked Cassidy a lot, not what she had become. This fact didn’t make the killing of my first zombie any easier.

  I’ve never had a shot that clean since. Beginner’s luck, I guess.

  Jewel nudged me. “What do you think Mom and Dad will find in there?”

  The small town smell of a hot Nebraska afternoon invaded my nose as I glanced up. My little sister was pointing at the abandoned armory, her green, twelve-year-old eyes filled with excitement. I leaned against the car door. “I’m not sure, but I could go for a pizza.”

  Jewel smacked a fly against her window. “If there’s no peppers, I’m good.”

  I smiled at my little sister. She was good. Like, scare-the-crap-out-of-me good. I usually wait to see what these monsters do before I pull the trigger. Not my Jewel, although it was good of her to miss that shotgun-toting old guy in the middle of Iowa. He’d boarded up a gas station just south of Des Moines, and he bargained us an arm and a leg for a few gallons of gas and a safe place to sleep. I mean that figuratively. In those days, arms and legs were fairly easy to come by.

  The next morning, the guy lunged for my jugular.

  Jewel didn’t miss then. I’ve kept her close since.

  She glanced at her pink plastic Barbie watch, the one she had mail ordered by collecting cereal coupons when she was eight—amazing how long the batteries last in those things. “It’s been ten minutes,” she whined. “Does it really take that long to look inside an armory?”

  “It looks more like a National Guard building, or something.” I opened my door.

  Jewel flashed a worried look my way. Her jaw-length chestnut hair whipped her cheeks. “What’re you doing? They told us to stay inside the car!?”

  “Chillax. They’ll be back before they reach us.”

  By they, I meant the Crawlers, also known as Stage 3 Vectors according to some medical expert on the radio before the airwaves died. I counted nine. Each one crawled, clawed or rolled their way over the dying grass of the abandoned armory, their skinny arms and legs moving with mindless desperation. It was a sad sight, really. Without a victim to munch on, the infection, or parasite, or whatever made these dead people undead had all but consumed their fat cells and inner tissues.

  These hungry, mummy-like ghouls kept inching for us like dehydrated slugs.

  Crawlers are mostly harmless. Nothing really scary about them. A decent pair of steel-toed boots was enough to make them stop forever. So long as we maintained a good five-foot distance from their reach, we could walk around them without breaking a sweat. Still, we had to keep our guards up. The tiniest bite or slightest scratch was enough to turn us into one of them.

  I couldn’t hear them yet. Or smell them. I pulled out my .45 anyway. The radio in my other hand clicked.

  “Get the car started, Jeremy!”

  Mom
’s voice was calm, but I knew what start the car meant. We were about to have company . . .

  Jewel turned around, looking frantic. I opened the driver door, reached for the keys and woke the engine. It sputtered to life. Thankfully our Dad was a handy mechanic. The likelihood of our Explorer breaking down was approximately zero to zip. I moved to the passenger side and opened Mom’s door. Taking my .45 in my right hand and a spare .40 in my left, I walked around the car and checked for obstacles and other Vectors that we might have previously overlooked.

  Nothing so far.

  Then, on the other side of the street, three Crawlers pulled themselves over the curb. The hot pavement rubbed against their dry skin like coarse sandpaper. They didn’t seem to mind, and their eyes—those that had them—stared longingly at me.

  I moved back to my side of the car, just as my sister raised the .22 semi-automatic to her open window and set the barrel on the sill.

  She aimed at the armory door. “I see them!”

  With my back turned, I had to rely on Jewel to know what was happening on the other side of the car. My job was to keep an eye on my side, to make sure nothing but the living came into our Explorer. Standard procedure. I didn’t want to imagine our parents running out of the red bricked building, chased by a dozen or more of the decaying undead. I just couldn’t help it.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Are they okay?”

  Crack! Crack!

  The sound of gunfire for an answer has never sat well with me. I turned around, ignoring the Crawlers that had reached the pavement, each of them heaving like shriveled chain-smokers.

  Jewel had her eye on her sights.

  “What are you shooting at?” I asked.

  “Stalkers! They’re going after Mom and Dad!”

  Stalkers. I knew those monsters well enough. Stage 2 Vectors were the most common, not by themselves or in small groups, but in packs. If they wanted to eat, their chances of trapping some poor sap was better in numbers. Unlike the Crawlers, these things could move around on their own feet, but no faster than a power walk. Atrophy and deterioration hadn’t set in just yet. Each of them had fresh blood all over themselves. They had to have devoured something recently.

  I didn’t want to know what.

  Dad was hauling a heavy black duffle bag over his shoulder, with Mom following close behind him. She looked back often, her finger hugging the trigger of a Remington 870 Express.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  “Don’t waste your rounds!” I warned Jewel. “Trigger-happy little . . .”

  I turned around. The Crawlers had made their way to the divided yellow line and started to cross it. If we didn’t leave soon, I would have to waste a few bullets.

  Crack—crack, crack, crack—crack . . . crack, crack!

  Jewel played her .22 like a musical instrument. I had to guess the melody. “Shave and a Haircut?”

  She nodded as Dad gestured Mom to her seat. “After you, my dear.” Mom jumped into the car while Dad shoved the giant bag through Jewel’s window. “Careful with this, guys.”

  The passenger door slammed, and both windows rolled up. Dad made his way to the driver’s side, holding his AR-15 steady and ready. A Crawler—her face hollowed—reached for his ankle. I fired and landed a dime-sized round in her sunken temple. No more reaching. No more moaning. She was dead.

  “Watch your left, Jeremy,” Dad warned as he climbed into his seat.

  I turned and fired another round into the crown of a boy—about Jewel’s age—with an unhinged jaw. He stopped moving. Black ooze dripped from his nose. Now that everyone was inside, I hopped in and closed my door before the grease monkey dude could grab me.

  “Buckle up,” Dad said. “We found a Runner—”

  Something rammed into Jewel’s door, jostling the Explorer. She recoiled. “Where’d he come from?”

  A Vector with a missing cheek had its face pressed against her window. It stared and balled its fists against the glass. The Stalkers hadn’t made their way across the lawn yet. This had to be the guy Dad was talking about. Dark foam dangled from its chin as it snarled.

  Runners, or Stage 1 Vectors, are the deadliest. At the time, I hadn’t seen a Runner in over a week. Cassidy was one of them. And she wasn’t the only one.

  She went home from our eighth-grade graduation rehearsal with a fever, along with a few other kids from different grades. Everyone thought it was some kind of flu, but as you know by now, it was something else entirely. The next night, our neighborhood went berserk. People chasing or running from each other until they were eaten or turned into Vectors themselves.

  When it comes to Runners, they run—original name, I know—but unlike the others, they could open doors, pick up rocks, and climb stairs. By extension, Runners are the hardest Vectors to put down. That’s why we had this rule: when you see a Runner, you run. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

  “Anytime you’re ready, Sweetie,” Mom told Dad.

  He kicked the gear into drive and stepped on the gas. The Runner scratching at Jewel’s door sprinted for us after speeding off. The others hinged and continued their labored walk in our direction. I turned in my seat and watched as they followed. Even the Crawlers shifted, not that they stood a Hades’ chance of catching us before they disintegrated into puddles of goop.

  We headed south, down North Chestnut, passing house after house and City Hall. About a hundred Vectors appeared out of nowhere. We had stirred the pot. One Vector was harmless, but a ginormous horde of them could smash our Explorer in like a soda can. The sight terrified me, but I kept looking as Dad swerved around them. I actually felt sorry for them. We left the Nebraska town with its white water tower and passed their sign, its letters shrinking as we raced away.

  I strained to read them: Welcome to Wahoo

  “Wahoo . . .”

  I had to say it a few more times in my head.

  Wahoo . . . Wahoo . . .

  I laughed, mostly to myself. Nothing about the last few weeks was worth laughing about. If the pandemic hadn’t happen over Memorial Day weekend, I doubt we would’ve been together when the world went insane. Mom would’ve worked, Dad would’ve been at his shop, and my little sister would’ve gone to one of her friend’s houses to watch My Little Pony or some junk. I’m not sure what I would’ve done—maybe go to a movie.

  The carnage that we stared at through my sister’s bedroom window was enough to keep us housebound for a week, until things were quiet enough to slip away.

  “Happy Birthday, Jewel,” Dad said, handing her a bolt-action rifle.

  “Wow! For real?!” She snatched it from him, no longer stunned by the Runner or the thin sheet of glass that had separated her from getting her skin ripped off. “So. Cool. Thanks, Dad!”

  “Wait,” Mom protested. “You’re giving it to her? It’s a hunting rifle!”

  “Or a sniper rifle,” Dad said. “It’s more effective than that peashooter she has right now.”

  My parents squabbled as Jewel hugged her new piece like a stuffed teddy bear. I couldn’t help being jealous. Not because of her rifle, but for her attitude over the situation. It had been a week since we’d last seen a living person—which didn’t last long—and I was doubtful that we would see another person anytime soon. And I was supposed to start my freshman year of high school in the fall. A hunch told me this wouldn’t happen. Being fifteen would be harder than I thought.

  To make matters worse, finding a girlfriend would be difficult, if not impossible. For all I knew, the Vectors had eaten every fish in my prospective ocean.

  I shook my head to focus. I was still alive, sitting in a crowded car with the most jaded people in the history of Ever. Our mission? We were going to wait out the Vector Pandemic in my grandparent’s cabin in the Colorado Rockies. And this was my family. It was my responsibility to keep them safe.

  Reaching for an opened bag of beef jerky, I watched as Jewel plugged a pair of headphones into her iPod. She jammed away to Imagine
Dragons while my parent’s argument continued to escalate.

  Nothing brings the family together like a zombie apocalypse.

  “Would you hand me a bottle of water, Jeremy?”

  Dad caught me staring out the back window without my seatbelt on. He had this way of making us useful whenever we’d break the rules. I scrounged about in the back for the first bottle I could find and twisted the cap off. I placed the bottle in his awaiting hand.

  “Thanks,” he said before taking a big swig.

  I buckled myself back in. “No problem.”

  “This is really cool, Dad.” Jewel was stroking her new rifle like a braid of princess hair. She used to cuddle dolls not too long ago. “I can’t believe you found this.”

  “I can’t believe how much we found,” Mom said. “You’d think someone would’ve cleared that place out before us. The outbreak must’ve hit hard here, too.”

  Mom’s words fit well. Glancing out my window was enough to prove it, passing car after abandoned car. It was hard to keep my stomach in check whenever I saw a body in one of the cars—or what was left of it.

  I was thirsty all of a sudden, so I unbuckled and went aqua hunting. “Anyone need a drink?” I asked. Mom declined. So did Jewel. I grabbed three bottles anyway, to save me a trip for later. “There’s about a dozen left, plus that five gallon jug and the root beer.”

  “We’ll have to go shopping.” Dad laughed. “What’s the next town?”

  Mrs. Navigator Mom grabbed the atlas on the dash board and traced her finger along a highlighted line. “David City . . .” she said slowly. “It’s a bit north of the highway—about two miles off.”

  “We’ll top off there if the stations are clear,” Dad said. “That should get us to the border. We’ll find a hill, too. Jewel needs to learn how to use that rifle.”

  I laughed. The rifle’s kick was sure to knock her off said hill.

  She may have been small, but Jewel was our Eagle Eye, our sniper elite when Mom and Dad went into buildings, S.W.A.T-team-style, to scavenge for supplies. Having a gun dealer and a volunteer National Guardsman for a dad played a big part in our strategy, and it had saved our skins on more than one occasion. Mom was a registered nurse, or used to be. And she wasn’t a firearms fan. Now she was Point Guard, our shotgun-hauling slayer of the undead. Dad was Point Man, the guy in front, sporting a Colt AR-15 with all the accessories: laser sight, flashlight, night vision, you name it! If it had a grenade launcher, he’d be in heaven.