Dove: A Zombie Tale (Byron: A Zombie Tale Book 2) by Scott Wieczorek Page B
Authors: Scott Wieczorek
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nasty glare. “The dead guy has a name, and it is Byron.”
“Yeah, well, miss punk rocker has a name, too,” Sammy interjected. “It’s Freakshow.” He started laughing, showing his browned and yellowed teeth.
“You two been dating long?” I asked Dove, chuckling under my breath.
She whipped around and glared at me with a stare that could freeze boiling water.
“Hey, if looks could kill, I’d be...” I gave her a huge grin. “Oh wait, I already am dead.”
Sammy’s laughter went from a rolling chuckle to snorts and guffaws.
John smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey, you mind keeping it down?”
I draped an arm around John’s shoulder. “What say we go upstairs and check on your parents?”
Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes. He nodded without lifting his gaze from the floor.
“Moment of truth,” I muttered as I ascended the stairway, drawing both Katanas as I did.
The modern decor continued up the stairs. I had to admit, despite the cold appearance to the style, it still managed to feel homey.
As we crested the stair into the hallway, a soft thump resonated from a room at the far end. John pointed, an aluminum baseball bat resting on his shoulder, looking like Babe Ruth calling out his hits. “That’s mom and dad’s room.”
I nodded, zipping down the hallway without a sound. I sniffed at the door. My senses reeled with the overpowering odors of Chanel perfume and human body stench.
I knocked on the door, with a light touch. “Hello? Anybody in there?”
Blam! Blam!
The door exploded outward. Thousands of lead pellets pelted my skin, sending me reeling backward. Both swords went flying from my hands. One stuck into a nearby wall, the other clattered to the floor.
“Whoa! Don’t shoot!” John shouted behind me.
“God dammit!” I shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you people? Zombies don’t knock!” I grabbed my chest as the sensation of being stabbed with a thousand acidic needles faded. I ripped the one sword from the wall and kicked the other up into the air before sheathing them both behind my back.
“Dad!” John shouted as he ran down the hallway.
“John? Is it really you?”
“Yeah, Dad! It’s me.”
“Is everyone okay?” A face peered around the doorjamb down the hallway at me, likely trying to figure out why I was still standing and not dead. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It’s just that things have gotten a little tough around here.”
I heard footsteps pound on the stairs and I glanced over the railing, holding my hand up to stop anyone from coming up.
“Yeah, we noticed,” John replied to his dad. “Are you guys both okay?”
Silence. A taller, thicker version of John stepped through the doorway. He had gray hair and a beard, but in every other way, he seemed the identical match to what John would look like in his fifties.
“Dad? Is mom okay?”
The elder man turned his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry son. One of those damn things got her the other day.” His voice cracked as he spoke. I could see dampness pooling along his lower eyelid. “She’s out there somewhere.”
John stepped in toward his father and wrapped his arms around the massive man. John’s father seemed the kind of man who never cried, the stoic, larger-than-life father figure of myth, legend, and childhood recollections. But to see him here so vulnerable dashed that illusion to pieces. I backed out of the room, my wounds already closing over. They needed some time alone. Time to talk, father to son. Time to grieve over a wife and mother.
About halfway down the steps, Dove shouted up the stairs at me. “What the hell happened up there? Did someone get shot?”
“Yeah, me. But the microorganisms already healed the wounds. Ruined my shirt, though. I liked this shirt.” I opened up my trench coat and showed her the tattered shreds of blood stained cloth. The color drained from her face, leaning toward pale green.
She collected herself, stiffened a little, and
“Yeah, well, miss punk rocker has a name, too,” Sammy interjected. “It’s Freakshow.” He started laughing, showing his browned and yellowed teeth.
“You two been dating long?” I asked Dove, chuckling under my breath.
She whipped around and glared at me with a stare that could freeze boiling water.
“Hey, if looks could kill, I’d be...” I gave her a huge grin. “Oh wait, I already am dead.”
Sammy’s laughter went from a rolling chuckle to snorts and guffaws.
John smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey, you mind keeping it down?”
I draped an arm around John’s shoulder. “What say we go upstairs and check on your parents?”
Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes. He nodded without lifting his gaze from the floor.
“Moment of truth,” I muttered as I ascended the stairway, drawing both Katanas as I did.
The modern decor continued up the stairs. I had to admit, despite the cold appearance to the style, it still managed to feel homey.
As we crested the stair into the hallway, a soft thump resonated from a room at the far end. John pointed, an aluminum baseball bat resting on his shoulder, looking like Babe Ruth calling out his hits. “That’s mom and dad’s room.”
I nodded, zipping down the hallway without a sound. I sniffed at the door. My senses reeled with the overpowering odors of Chanel perfume and human body stench.
I knocked on the door, with a light touch. “Hello? Anybody in there?”
Blam! Blam!
The door exploded outward. Thousands of lead pellets pelted my skin, sending me reeling backward. Both swords went flying from my hands. One stuck into a nearby wall, the other clattered to the floor.
“Whoa! Don’t shoot!” John shouted behind me.
“God dammit!” I shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you people? Zombies don’t knock!” I grabbed my chest as the sensation of being stabbed with a thousand acidic needles faded. I ripped the one sword from the wall and kicked the other up into the air before sheathing them both behind my back.
“Dad!” John shouted as he ran down the hallway.
“John? Is it really you?”
“Yeah, Dad! It’s me.”
“Is everyone okay?” A face peered around the doorjamb down the hallway at me, likely trying to figure out why I was still standing and not dead. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It’s just that things have gotten a little tough around here.”
I heard footsteps pound on the stairs and I glanced over the railing, holding my hand up to stop anyone from coming up.
“Yeah, we noticed,” John replied to his dad. “Are you guys both okay?”
Silence. A taller, thicker version of John stepped through the doorway. He had gray hair and a beard, but in every other way, he seemed the identical match to what John would look like in his fifties.
“Dad? Is mom okay?”
The elder man turned his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry son. One of those damn things got her the other day.” His voice cracked as he spoke. I could see dampness pooling along his lower eyelid. “She’s out there somewhere.”
John stepped in toward his father and wrapped his arms around the massive man. John’s father seemed the kind of man who never cried, the stoic, larger-than-life father figure of myth, legend, and childhood recollections. But to see him here so vulnerable dashed that illusion to pieces. I backed out of the room, my wounds already closing over. They needed some time alone. Time to talk, father to son. Time to grieve over a wife and mother.
About halfway down the steps, Dove shouted up the stairs at me. “What the hell happened up there? Did someone get shot?”
“Yeah, me. But the microorganisms already healed the wounds. Ruined my shirt, though. I liked this shirt.” I opened up my trench coat and showed her the tattered shreds of blood stained cloth. The color drained from her face, leaning toward pale green.
She collected herself, stiffened a little, and
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