Downfall Read online

  DOWNFALL

  BY MICHAEL S. GARDNER

  Downfall

  by Michael S. Gardner

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2013. All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art and design by Robert Elrod

  Edited by Clyde Wolfe

  Interior formatting by Michael S. Gardner and Kody Boye

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the proper written permission of the copyright owners, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  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, dead or undead, or historical events is purely coincidental.

  OTHER WORKS BY MICHAEL S. GARDNER:

  DEATH IN THE TIMES OF MADNESS

  BETRAYAL: A ZOMBIE NOVELLA

  THE BLOOD OF AN IMMORTAL

  SELLER OF THE DEAD

  FORTHCOMING WORKS:

  RUINATION: A SHORT STORY

  PLAYING WITH DEAD THINGS

  DEAD RECON: THE HADAEN INITITIVE

  CO-WRITTEN WITH MATT NORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to take this time to thank a few people who have helped me along the way.

  First, I would like to thank all my friends and family for your undying support and suggestions. Without you guys, none of this would have ever been possible.

  I would also like to thank several writer friends of mine: S. P. Durnin, A. J. Rayner, Suzanne Robb, Matt Nord, Patrick D’Orazio (who you will soon meet in the introduction), April M. Reign, Timothy W. Long, C. Dulaney, Clyde Wolfe, and the rest of the gang. Your advice and guidance has helped me become the writer I am today.

  Stepanie Rogan, who took on the edits for the first draft of Downfall, when it was initially titled, Outbreak, has taught me much. Your knowledge is vast in the literary world. I thank you for everything.

  Clyde Wolfe, my second editor for this novel, has taught me even more. Without you, I would still have somewhat flat and unlikable characters. Sometimes you need a good friend to say, “WTF is this supposed to mean?” A good kick in the ass never hurts.

  I’d also like to take this time to thank Sir Robert Elrod for the phenomenal cover. You brought to life the image I had in mind.

  And finally, I’d like to thank you, the reader, for taking a chance on some unknown writer who’s a diehard fan of the genre. I do hope you enjoy this work!

  INTRODUCTION

  When Michael Gardner asked me to write this introduction, I was honored. As a fellow writer and zombie aficionado, Mike and I sort of ‘grew up’ together in the world of zombies. We are alumni of The Library of the Living Dead, which was both a publishing entity and a cool message board where like-minded fans of all things undead could hang out and talk about what we love about the impending apocalypse, along with plenty of other more benign topics.

  Mike and I have had some pretty interesting conversations over the years. Being on Facebook has provided us with an avenue to continue our dialog with each other and so many other fans of the zompoc, especially after the Library message boards faded away over the last year or so.

  Mike is one of those guys, like me, who grew up loving the undead and everything related to apocalyptic fiction. Crafting an apocalyptic tale is world building at its finest. You can really do as you see fit with the world that remains and the characters that inhabit it. Sure, there are the tropes and rules of the road, as it were, but you can see fit to bend those rules when it comes to zombies and any fresh new hell that might pop up. With my first novel, I went the path of the every man who has lost everything; someone who gets as close to the edge as possible, sinking ever closer into a suicidal rage before he is pulled back from that edge by other survivors. Mike went a different route with his first book, with the novel you have before you being the result. In his tale he didn’t choose to have his characters react in a suicidal, go out guns-a-blazing way. Sure, Matt and Cole, the main characters, would love nothing more than to wipe the face of the earth clean of the undead, but more important to them is who still remains alive, rather than what they have lost. They are friends to the end, bound together by their desire to survive and to protect those in their care. They still know how to smile, to joke around, and to delight in the little things that life (and death) has to offer, even when unspeakable horror is all around them.

  Mike created a tale that has emotional heft, but also introduces us to a couple of guys who are probably a quite a bit like you and me…especially if you’re someone who enjoys apocalyptic sagas. They aren’t necessarily survivalists, but the idea of a bug-out bag doesn’t seem that far-fetched to them. It might not be zombies, but the concept of something big on the horizon that could wipe us all out isn’t so unbelievable that they scoff at the concept of being prepared for the inevitable. Matt and Cole aren’t navy seals or superheroes. Heck, they’re just a couple of guys who like to get high every now and then and have fun, but who are also willing to do the dirty deeds that need to get done when the world goes to hell in a hand basket.

  I think that is what I really liked about this story. These two guys have lost almost everything, but they accept the cards they’ve been dealt and are ready to face this new, terrifying world with an enthusiasm most of us would find difficult to muster. Downfall was a fun read and I was thrilled to see how Mike’s vision of the zombie apocalypse turned out. Like with my first book, it took him a few years to hone and sharpen it to what you see before you today, and if you’re like me-a fan of zombie fiction-I’m guessing you’re going to enjoy the tale he has to tell.

  Patrick D’Orazio-Author of The Dark Trilogy

  PART ONE: AWAKENING

  CHAPTER 1

  October 30, 2013

  Gloucester, Virginia

  Two weeks after initial outbreak

  “Fuck me,” Matt Rylan said as consciousness took hold.

  He opened his eyes to planked hardwood and rafters above. Dust particles swam through a beam of light cast into the basement from the window to his left. A glance to the right revealed the collapsed stairs from which he’d been thrown, and he wondered how long he’d been out. Ten minutes? Two hours?

  “What the hell was that about?”

  Sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, Matt scanned the basement. The place was a maze of stacked boxes and shelves; some of which had been knocked over, spilling clothes, magazines, and toys. God only knew what the hell had been stored down here. Cracking his back, satisfied his brains weren’t going to ooze out of some hidden wound, he staggered to his feet and retied his ponytail.

  The shadows of three creepers shambled across the window, their moans seeping through the cracked pane of glass like demonic whispers. A gust of rot swept past his nose as he stood paralyzed, the entirety of his situation washing over him like a hailstorm. A quick scan of the remaining windows confirmed that the house was surrounded by the dead.

  This isn’t good, Matt thought, retrieving his Sig Saur P226 nine-millimeter and his Damascus-forged katana from the floor beside a rotted workbench. He sheathed the blade and checked the chamber of the pistol. The four magazines in his back pocket shifted as he strode to the bench, trying to get a good view of the outside world. The neighboring house was probably fifteen feet away, the gap creating an alley through which the undead trudged toward the street with outstretched arms and clacking teeth.

  Gunfire erupted.

  The creepers ambled with a higher sense of purpose.

  Backup had arrived.
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  “Matt!”

  The voice of his best friend, Cole Grayson, shouted a line of expletives drowned beneath a fusillade of background shooting through Matt’s FRS radio. Two creepers fell lifeless just before the sidewalk at the front of the house. Matt made for his backpack, cursing himself for not remembering it sooner, and fished out the radio.

  Releasing a breath, he said, “Man, am I glad to hear your voice, Cole.” He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed as two more of what the mainstream media had dubbed as “infected” wobbled past the window.

  “He’s alive!” he heard Cole yell away from the radio. “We thought you were a goner, Matt. Glad to hear you made it, brother.”

  The window behind Matt shattered. Clattering glass and desperate moaning sounded, sending a chill down his spine. Two creepers were negotiating their way in; rotting and mottled skin peeling back as it got caught on glass shards. One snarled as it mutilated itself and reached forward. The other fell with a thump, riding a small stack of boxes to the floor.

  “Won’t be alive too much longer if I can’t get the hell outta here,” Matt said into the radio. He set it down, keeping an attentive eye on the intruders, and reached for his box of ammunition as Cole replied.

  “Hold on, man. Give us a few minutes.”

  Placing a bullet in each ear, Matt watched as the fallen undead lifted itself up into a shamble. Arms extended, baring bloody teeth, the creeper moved with a humorous yet terrifying resolve. A bullet between the eyes put its mind to ease. The body dropped to the side, knocking over another stack of items. Taking aim at the second creeper working its way through the window, he waited until the thing’s gaze met his. Its lips peeled back in a snarl, and he fired.

  Somewhere above, more glass exploded.

  ***

  Cole was forming a plan as he gunned down any creeper that wandered close enough to dispatch with a single headshot. That, if not complete incineration, was the only way to permanently down those decaying sacks of flesh and bone.

  Alex holed up in the doorway of the gas station and sniped those out of Cole’s range. When he wasn’t shooting, the thirteen-year-old, who, by all appearances, could be considered small for his age, watched through his binoculars for any threats in the distance. It was a trying process of elimination, and both were beginning to feel the onset of desperation. For every fallen body, Cole could count two or three more heading their way and, so far, the gas station seemed to be the only safe place. But for how long?

  Cole slapped in a fresh mag and ran back in the store. Setting his compact Glock 23 on the front counter, he made for the alcohol cooler. He sighed in relief, feeling as if fate had left the objects in front of him for this very moment. With a grunt, he pulled out a twelve-pack of Budweiser, ripped the top of the casing away, and poured the contents of each bottle on the floor with one thing on his mind.

  Incineration.

  Every bottle now empty and placed back in the box, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and made for the front counter, then the door after setting them down. Resting beside Alex was a gas can, full to the brim from a previous raid. Cole snatched it and set it next to the beer. Fifteen creepers were closing in on the store and Alex was in the process of reloading his Savage .22 rifle. Even more were surrounding the house where Matt sat trapped.

  “Need a little help, Cole,” Alex shouted, fumbling with the rounds as he loaded them into a magazine.

  Without a second thought, Cole ran out a few feet and shot the closest of the creepers. He turned back to Alex and said, “I need you to hold them off for a little bit longer, okay?”

  “Easier said than done,” Alex replied, wiping his forehead. His right eye twitched as he slapped the mag home.

  Cole placed his gun and spare magazines on the windowsill next to Alex then ran for the counter, heart racing as death loomed around their newfound shelter. He worked as quickly as jangling nerves allowed and, in minutes, had a twelve-pack of Molotov cocktails ready for use.

  Alex followed him out into the parking lot.

  Cole went left, away from the fuel pumps, and had the kid hold his fire. In their short time together, Cole had learned to appreciate the boy’s presence. Alex could do what most others couldn’t: keep a level head in difficult times.

  “Keep an eye out,” Cole said, and then advanced closer to the horde. Most were drawn to the house, pouring in through several broken windows. He could even hear a few gunshots coming from inside. “Dammit,” he muttered, wondering how things could have gotten so bad in just a few minutes.

  Cole pulled out his lighter, grabbed the first cocktail, and sent it flying down the street toward an overturned bus. A small drove of creepers had been negotiating their way around the wreckage and the Molotov set all afire, forming a temporary wall of flame. Cole prayed for something besides the undead to catch, something to keep the blaze going. The next bottle was sent in the opposite direction, where several creepers were approaching between two wrecked cars. He thanked his luck creepers were slow, unbalanced, and relatively easy to dispose of.

  The street was beginning resemble Hell, and Cole tossed another Molotov into each fire, broadening the range of each inferno. The blaze almost reached their van parked a few yards in front of the gas pumps. By then, Cole had gained the attention of every creeper in the vicinity.

  Alex ran back to the store and readied his rifle. He was much more acquainted with that than a pistol, anyhow. Those farthest away were downed as Cole unsheathed his sword—his weapon of choice, as it never ran out of ammunition. He swung it back and forth, slicing air. Each swipe felt better than the last. He waited for the first creeper to move within his blade’s reach, and when it did, he cut its skull clean in half. Smiling as the two halves flopped apart, the abomination now lifeless, Cole appreciated the fact that his trapped friend had collected such expensive, reliable weaponry before the End.

  He did his best not to gag at the visceral substance now clinging to his jacket and rubbed the sweat from his brow. Focusing on a shirtless man with gray skin and wiry hair, he lunged.

  ***

  Matt had dropped enough corpses at the rear window that there was now an effective wall of rotten flesh barring entry. The shadows of creepers came across the window beside him in plentiful amounts, coalescing into one monstrous form; they were ostensibly heading toward his friends. Cole’s plan was working, and it was making Matt anxious. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic, like the world was constricting inch by inch. Another glance at the collapsed stairs only strengthened the feeling.

  As he approached a locker marked Travel, the radio went off.

  “If you’re going to go, now would be the time, Matt.”

  “On my way.”

  He opened the locker and quickly rifled through its contents, finding a few pairs of waterproof facemasks and gloves buried beneath some clothing and brochures. They were a little tight, but they’d work, no doubt hindering infected blood from getting in his mouth. Other than a bite, the only thing he had to worry about was getting anything in his eyes.

  Matt flung open the window above the bench and tossed out his backpack. He crawled out, gun in hand, sword sheathed across his back, and made careful note of all the creepers headed toward the street and the few who were still seeking entry through the broken windows near the back of the house. He saw the barrier of flames on either side of the street and holstered his gun, unsheathed his sword, and strapped the backpack across his shoulders before running toward the horde.

  Cole saw that he had made it out, nodded his head, and backed away from several dismembered and decapitated creepers as more lunged at him.

  Matt noticed that the arms of several of the creepers flailed from the front windows, their flustered owners desperately seeking an exit, as he entered the front yard. A wretched thing that had once been a Boy Scout turned around and grabbed for him with a snarl. Mottled, dead hands missed him as he sidestepped, and Matt stuck out a foot. The dead boy lost its footing and tripped into
the side of the derelict house, and its neck bent and snapped in a hideous manner.

  “Fire in the hole!” Cole yelled while backing up from the pursuing creepers.

  Matt turned around in time to see a lit bottle soar overhead.

  “Shit.” Matt ran forward, ducking, and felt the whoosh that came after the bottle shattered.

  Cole threw a few more, igniting several small gatherings of creepers.

  For the most part, Cole’s plan was working. The outskirts of the battle zone were afire, but the thick of the horde was still between the two friends. Matt lost count after twenty.

  Tossing his backpack as close to their van as he could while avoiding the flames, Matt gripped his sword with practiced ease. This was dangerous ground for handguns.

  The creepers shambled onward toward Cole, determined and completely unaware of Matt’s presence. The first few dropped with partially severed heads. His blade was strong, but Matt wasn’t conditioned or trained in the art of sword fighting; cutting through the thickness of muscle and flesh, not to mention bone, wasn’t always an attainable feat. Each attack, however, incapacitated its victim, helping to create a path through the mass of festering bodies. The ones he couldn’t get a good swing on, he shoved out of the way.

  “Come on, you dead pusbags!” Cole taunted, stepping back toward the storefront.

  A corpse in camouflaged hunting garb grabbed Matt from behind and pulled him back. The creeper’s clacking teeth were inches from his face. Its grip on his shoulders loosened with a kick to its midsection, which allowed Matt a quick escape and enough time to push the thing away. He drove his sword through its eye and caught his breath. The jerk as the creeper met its final death shocked him the most; it was hauntingly similar the effect of severing the brain of a chicken. The thought made his stomach churn.