Among the Living by Timothy Long Page A
Authors: Timothy Long
Tags: Fiction, Action & Adventure, Horror, Zombies, apocalypse, Occult & Supernatural, Living Dead, End of the world, walking dead, brian keene, night of the living dead, the walking dead, seattle, apocalyptic fiction, tim long, world war z, max brooks, apocalyptic book
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the intellectual side and the green Nazis that crowd the neighborhoods with recycling containers. Then there is the nightlife, which she mostly avoids. However, she likes to take in a loud concert from time to time, preferably at El Cid—the darkest metal haven in the city. Bands from all over come to play the place; the beer is cheap and cold, and the girls who work there are fucking hot.
Her thoughts drift until a line of green cuts across the road on the opposite side of the highway. Cruising along the right-hand lane is a steady stream of camouflaged vehicles. They stretch a mile into the distance and look very, well, shocking against the normally peaceful city.
“What the fuck?” she mutters for the second time in ten minutes.
The driver actually slows down as the green snake makes its way along the other side of the highway. He stares at it and then speeds up and is revving down the highway once again.
“Hey, I changed my mind. Can you take the next exit and drop me along Airport Way? I’ll show you the spot.”
“Fine,” he says in slightly accented English and shoots her a dirty look. She can understand; it means he will need to return after a short fare with no one in the car. She’ll just tip him well to make up for it.
* * *
After a long bus ride from the SoDo district back to Queen Anne, she walks into her apartment complex as herself. Long black hair dangles free, but she is still dressed in ‘work clothes,’ having changed her plans. Normally she goes to the airport and changes in a bathroom, dumps the luggage and catches a bus back in her normal clothes. Just like at the hotel, she is being ultra-paranoid, entering as one person, leaving as another.
The reason for the long, slow bus trip was the congestion caused by the Army trucks moving up and down the streets. She saw men getting out and standing at attention, other trucks stopping, taking up entire lanes while they waited for something. Was it a terrorist threat? Surely a little gas leak wouldn’t necessitate this many troops on the streets.
She takes the stairs, since there is no telling how long the old elevator will take if it is on the top floor. Besides, it’s only a few flights, and every little bit does her legs good. She thinks they’re a bit chunky, not that the men she killed ever complained when she stood or knelt naked for them. They are thick, sure, but that came with her training.
She leaves the stairwell and makes her way to her apartment. Passes the place belonging to the widow Mildred Jones, who is much younger than her name lets on. Her husband had died in the late eighties while working on the docks. A large settlement meant she didn’t have to work, so she stays cooped up. Contrary to every stereotype of a widowed woman with too many cats, she is actually fun to hang out with and always had a bag of weed on hand.
She slides her key into her apartment door, number 203, and it pops open. Bob Brason opens his door, and for a second she thinks of Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters, constantly waiting for Sigourney Weaver to come home so he can pop his head out and hit on her in his pathetic way. She tosses her bag into her apartment, quickly, hoping he doesn’t comment on it. “Gee Kate, why the laptop bag? Been on a business trip? That’s kinda weird. I mean, don’t you work at a bookstore?” She wants to pound on the voice that mocks her, the voice in her head that sometimes says the damnedest things.
Unlike Moranis, Bob is actually a cool guy who has the worst job Kate has ever heard of. Even her mindless existence at the bookstore downtown is better than what he does, although he does get to work from home.
Bob is in a bathrobe, as usual, and he sports at least two days’ worth of beard. He has his glasses on, and he must have been looking outside, because the transition lenses are dark. The thin wire frames disappear into the bushy growth of black hair that hangs down to obscure his ears and
Her thoughts drift until a line of green cuts across the road on the opposite side of the highway. Cruising along the right-hand lane is a steady stream of camouflaged vehicles. They stretch a mile into the distance and look very, well, shocking against the normally peaceful city.
“What the fuck?” she mutters for the second time in ten minutes.
The driver actually slows down as the green snake makes its way along the other side of the highway. He stares at it and then speeds up and is revving down the highway once again.
“Hey, I changed my mind. Can you take the next exit and drop me along Airport Way? I’ll show you the spot.”
“Fine,” he says in slightly accented English and shoots her a dirty look. She can understand; it means he will need to return after a short fare with no one in the car. She’ll just tip him well to make up for it.
* * *
After a long bus ride from the SoDo district back to Queen Anne, she walks into her apartment complex as herself. Long black hair dangles free, but she is still dressed in ‘work clothes,’ having changed her plans. Normally she goes to the airport and changes in a bathroom, dumps the luggage and catches a bus back in her normal clothes. Just like at the hotel, she is being ultra-paranoid, entering as one person, leaving as another.
The reason for the long, slow bus trip was the congestion caused by the Army trucks moving up and down the streets. She saw men getting out and standing at attention, other trucks stopping, taking up entire lanes while they waited for something. Was it a terrorist threat? Surely a little gas leak wouldn’t necessitate this many troops on the streets.
She takes the stairs, since there is no telling how long the old elevator will take if it is on the top floor. Besides, it’s only a few flights, and every little bit does her legs good. She thinks they’re a bit chunky, not that the men she killed ever complained when she stood or knelt naked for them. They are thick, sure, but that came with her training.
She leaves the stairwell and makes her way to her apartment. Passes the place belonging to the widow Mildred Jones, who is much younger than her name lets on. Her husband had died in the late eighties while working on the docks. A large settlement meant she didn’t have to work, so she stays cooped up. Contrary to every stereotype of a widowed woman with too many cats, she is actually fun to hang out with and always had a bag of weed on hand.
She slides her key into her apartment door, number 203, and it pops open. Bob Brason opens his door, and for a second she thinks of Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters, constantly waiting for Sigourney Weaver to come home so he can pop his head out and hit on her in his pathetic way. She tosses her bag into her apartment, quickly, hoping he doesn’t comment on it. “Gee Kate, why the laptop bag? Been on a business trip? That’s kinda weird. I mean, don’t you work at a bookstore?” She wants to pound on the voice that mocks her, the voice in her head that sometimes says the damnedest things.
Unlike Moranis, Bob is actually a cool guy who has the worst job Kate has ever heard of. Even her mindless existence at the bookstore downtown is better than what he does, although he does get to work from home.
Bob is in a bathrobe, as usual, and he sports at least two days’ worth of beard. He has his glasses on, and he must have been looking outside, because the transition lenses are dark. The thin wire frames disappear into the bushy growth of black hair that hangs down to obscure his ears and
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