Dove: A Zombie Tale (Byron: A Zombie Tale Book 2) by Scott Wieczorek Page A
Authors: Scott Wieczorek
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invaded. Humans have had a truly unique reaction to them.”
“What happened to those Lords you mentioned were following us before?”
“They are still there. Just laying low. I would hazard a guess that John, Evan, and I have developed quite a reputation among the Lords, so they keep their distance. We have killed a few dozen of them. The colonies have a way of communicating with each other through the use of chemical and hormonal signals. So my colonies send out a strong warning signal, and most Lords pay attention. The colonies occupying the commoners have lost too much of their own identities to even understand their own communication methods. So they will attack without hesitation.”
“At least we’re safe from the Lords, then.”
“Not quite. If a horde swarms us, the Lords will push the advantage and attack, too. We’ve had it happen. Which is why we need to stay as quiet as possible.”
We stopped at the corner of Brown and North 26th Street. Small storefront delis and coffee shops fronted toward the intersection. Shadows passed behind the windows with odd, jerky movements. The figures that came into view wore clothing blackened with various unidentifiable stains. Gray and white flesh poked out from rips and tears, or the occasional uncovered area. None lived.
“We need to keep moving,” Byron whispered. I could smell his breath. Despite what he told me about being undead and drinking blood, it smelled minty. “There are only Goners here, and they’re beginning to notice us.”
Almost as if it heard his comment, a glass pane broke in one of the doors and a hand reached through. Moans resonated through the desolate intersection.
I didn’t need much more inspiration than that. Breaking into a sprint, I headed south along North 26th Street on John’s heels. Evan and Sammy kept pace right behind me. Byron stood back in the intersection, both Katanas drawn, ready to protect our retreat.
John turned right down the first block across from a row of mansard-roofed townhouses. Little more than a glorified alley, cars choked Swain Street. John ran to the far end of the block and stopped in front of a two-story row home with a rooftop garden spilling over its walls.
I turned to see Sammy and Evan a few paces behind, but saw no sign of Byron. Turning back to John, I saw him remove his key. Byron materialized from nowhere, walked up the steps and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Remember John, whatever happens—happens.”
~ ~ ~
The inside of John’s house surprised me. He had told me about it plenty of times, but I never realized that something so modern could exist within a brick-clad nineteenth century row house. It stood in stark contrast to the exterior decor of historic Philadelphia neighborhoods and reflected the ideals and beliefs of the early twentieth-century’s intellectual giants. Clean lines, geometric shapes, simple colors. That final aspect alone spoke volumes—simplicity.
“My God, John. I had no idea you grew up in an art museum,” Evan teased as we passed through the front door.
“Beats growing up in a sewer,” John mumbled back.
I drew in a deep breath. Nothing fetid struck me right away. Hope still lived that his parents may have survived.
“Mom! Dad!” John called out to them as he ran toward the back of the house.
Something moved upstairs.
“John, wait!” He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. I pointed my finger up at the ceiling. “There’s something moving about up there.”
“Is it a something, or a someone, Byron?”
I shrugged. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell. Usually my senses could detect if a place were occupied by Goners. But right now, I drew a blank. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Wrong,” he said, stabbing a finger at me. “Your guess is a hell of a lot more educated and accurate than mine ever will be.”
I grinned. “True.”
“I vote we send the dead guy to check it out,” Dove offered up.
I shot her a
“What happened to those Lords you mentioned were following us before?”
“They are still there. Just laying low. I would hazard a guess that John, Evan, and I have developed quite a reputation among the Lords, so they keep their distance. We have killed a few dozen of them. The colonies have a way of communicating with each other through the use of chemical and hormonal signals. So my colonies send out a strong warning signal, and most Lords pay attention. The colonies occupying the commoners have lost too much of their own identities to even understand their own communication methods. So they will attack without hesitation.”
“At least we’re safe from the Lords, then.”
“Not quite. If a horde swarms us, the Lords will push the advantage and attack, too. We’ve had it happen. Which is why we need to stay as quiet as possible.”
We stopped at the corner of Brown and North 26th Street. Small storefront delis and coffee shops fronted toward the intersection. Shadows passed behind the windows with odd, jerky movements. The figures that came into view wore clothing blackened with various unidentifiable stains. Gray and white flesh poked out from rips and tears, or the occasional uncovered area. None lived.
“We need to keep moving,” Byron whispered. I could smell his breath. Despite what he told me about being undead and drinking blood, it smelled minty. “There are only Goners here, and they’re beginning to notice us.”
Almost as if it heard his comment, a glass pane broke in one of the doors and a hand reached through. Moans resonated through the desolate intersection.
I didn’t need much more inspiration than that. Breaking into a sprint, I headed south along North 26th Street on John’s heels. Evan and Sammy kept pace right behind me. Byron stood back in the intersection, both Katanas drawn, ready to protect our retreat.
John turned right down the first block across from a row of mansard-roofed townhouses. Little more than a glorified alley, cars choked Swain Street. John ran to the far end of the block and stopped in front of a two-story row home with a rooftop garden spilling over its walls.
I turned to see Sammy and Evan a few paces behind, but saw no sign of Byron. Turning back to John, I saw him remove his key. Byron materialized from nowhere, walked up the steps and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Remember John, whatever happens—happens.”
~ ~ ~
The inside of John’s house surprised me. He had told me about it plenty of times, but I never realized that something so modern could exist within a brick-clad nineteenth century row house. It stood in stark contrast to the exterior decor of historic Philadelphia neighborhoods and reflected the ideals and beliefs of the early twentieth-century’s intellectual giants. Clean lines, geometric shapes, simple colors. That final aspect alone spoke volumes—simplicity.
“My God, John. I had no idea you grew up in an art museum,” Evan teased as we passed through the front door.
“Beats growing up in a sewer,” John mumbled back.
I drew in a deep breath. Nothing fetid struck me right away. Hope still lived that his parents may have survived.
“Mom! Dad!” John called out to them as he ran toward the back of the house.
Something moved upstairs.
“John, wait!” He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. I pointed my finger up at the ceiling. “There’s something moving about up there.”
“Is it a something, or a someone, Byron?”
I shrugged. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell. Usually my senses could detect if a place were occupied by Goners. But right now, I drew a blank. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Wrong,” he said, stabbing a finger at me. “Your guess is a hell of a lot more educated and accurate than mine ever will be.”
I grinned. “True.”
“I vote we send the dead guy to check it out,” Dove offered up.
I shot her a
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