Zombie Reign (Book 1): Death in Detroit Read online

  Zombie Reign: Death in Detroit

  Joseph Edward

  Electronic Edition

  Copyright 2012 Joseph Edward

  Zombie Reign: Death in Detroit

  Dedication

  To my family, to my friends – may this fiction never become a reality. ;)

  On a serious note, I have some people who need recognition for their support while this was written and published.

  My lovely, dedicated and hard working wife Karen, my three wonderful kids – Logan, Claire and Zoey, my print cover designer Jon, Zach, Noah, Eric, Justin, Tommy and all the OTG’s – all of them being a great inspiration!

  And to you, for taking the chance on a previously unknown author – thank YOU!

  Prologue

  My name is Scott Griffin. I go by “Griff” and used to be your typical suburban cop. I used to love camping, walks on the beach, videogames and the normal things life offered. There is no normalcy in the world anymore.

  I don’t really know why I thought it was a good idea to sit and write this all down. I alternate between thawing out my freezing digits by blowing a warm breath of life onto them, and stretching my entire hand out from writer’s cramp.

  Sure it’s cold outside, winter in Detroit always is. The chill in my bones has much more to do with the stripping away of humanity from my soul, and all that I have lost, than the harsh December winter.

  Huddling in the attic of a vacant home that no longer carries a mortgage, nor the family that had it built to raise their children. I reminisce about the tough times of a crippling economy from bank failures and government bailouts. Those were the good old days!

  You see, there was a time when journalists would refer to Detroit as dying. Well, it’s making a comeback lately…the dead are literally coming back to life. People aren’t exactly dying to move here, it’s more like they die and stay.

  I think that I just want to write out our experiences with some survival advice. This isn’t meant to be a journal of reflection where the next generation is preached to about never making the mistakes of the past, but the kind that tells how to simply live and survive today. Speaking of which, that moaning and scraping on the access door needs my attention…

  Chapter 1

  I was up early and getting ready for another 12 hour shift. This was my last work day before my furlough, and I was looking forward to having a few days off to get things done around the house before winter hit. The TV was as much background noise as the wife was, asking me which dress she should wear for my partner’s second wedding the following weekend.

  The news on TV was void of the usual political bantering. It was more like I remembered it around the terrorist attacks on 9/11. That isn’t a good thing. The news media usually loves misery and misery loves company. The networks were focused on news of an unexpected pandemic.

  It was September, the anniversary of that fateful day had passed quietly but there was a looming threat of something more sinister in the air. All of the news channels were buzzing about a new flu virus that was sweeping the nation, with the southern states being hit the hardest.

  I know, right? The south? What flu bug doesn’t start up here in the north and work its way down? Either way, I was not looking forward to the inevitable. Every year I got a flu shot. Every year I was sicker than the last.

  This flu virus appeared to be especially bad. The CDC was involved and they had established quarantine areas in several of the large metropolitan cities where the virus was most severe. Most of the news footage couldn’t get enough of the ominous sights of CDC workers in their hazmat turnout gear. Was that really necessary? While trying to take in what was being reported my wife continued to solicit my opinion of her fashion choices for the upcoming event. I couldn’t help but wonder if those hazmat suits would be able to filter out a nagging woman. I very much doubted it.

  Suddenly the images on the TV caught my attention more than what was being said by the anchorwoman. Yes, the anchorwoman was attractive, but she isn’t what caught my eye. Okay, okay, she was definitely a welcomed distraction from the news she was reporting, but that isn’t the point of what I’m trying to get at.

  The images of the latest outbreak and quarantine in Atlanta showed CDC workers in and around a research facility. The workers were in hazmat suits, outside the research facility. This wasn’t a quarantine zone, this was a secured lab. And the hazmat suits? They looked nothing like standard issue for first responders, but more akin to the latest NASA or stratos jumpsuit. They were heavier and thicker looking, with larger backpacks than would be necessary for standard self-contained breathing apparatus. They were wearing them outside the facility? That sent of an alarm that had me covered in goose bumps.

  “Thinking about me in that black dress?” Kate asked.

  “What?” I replied.

  “You’re covered in goose bumps. I must have hit you in your happy place to get that reaction out of you, Griff!”

  “You got it!” I replied. One of the last things you ever want to do as a man is fail to reply positively or quickly enough to a female when she feels she has one of your responses pegged. It isn’t dogs that can smell fear, its women. Fear and bullshit. Yep, definitely bullshit.

  “Sweetheart, men rise to the occasion, if you will, but they don’t get goose bumps for that reason. What’s on your mind?”

  “Just work stuff. I don’t really like the looks of this whole pandemic thing...”

  “No need to worry. We’ll be getting our flu shots this week and everything will be fine. Just like last year, when we had to go to urgent care…and ended up in the ER later…with pneumonia…”

  “My point exactly,” Kate could tell her attempts at humor were not lightening my mood. “It’s just that with this outbreak, there is no vaccine and I’m exposed to more shit than a lactose intolerant baby’s diaper in my line of work. Not to mention the possibility that they may cancel my vacation and call me back in if the sick calls start rolling in.”

  “This too will pass,” she said as she glanced at the clock, “I need you home tonight to do some work before your vacation officially starts.” She smiled and winked at me with her beautiful blue eyes and that wicked dimple. Her long black hair waving about as she turned to walk away.

  “Kate?”

  “Yes?” She replied as she glanced back over her shoulder at me.

  “You just gave me something and it’s not a goose bump.” I said with a smirk.

  “Get out of here!” Kate yelled as she ran up and smacked my ass, followed by a loving push towards the door.

  Chapter 2

  As I pulled out of the driveway, I noticed the air felt heavy like it does at the beginning of spring. “It’s going to be a long winter…” I said to myself.

  The drive to work was the same hectic 50 mile commute along I-94 that it always was, but I did notice there was much less traffic than usual. Heavy or light, there were always people driving like absolute clueless douchebags. You remember the people I am talking about, right?

  There’s the make-up artist that is busy at work applying to mascara in the vanity mirror, while riding the bumper of the car in front of her. Karma would dictate that at some point someone actually lost an eye when the applicator impaled their eyeball as they failed to brake in time for the car in front of them. I don’t think that’s the case, as I have never seen a woman with an eye patch in person.

  Then there’s the ADHD driver gulping an energy drink while texting. The telltale sign of this moron is the inability to choose a lane, stay in said lane, and drive 40mph over the speed limit while cutting in and out of every other car on the freeway.

  Just for good measur
e, there is always my personal favorite – the Flintstone mobile. The car that drives in the center lane, powered by human feet, and going 20mph under the posted lowest prohibited speed. This is the person that is responsible for more pile ups and accidents than the previously aforementioned drivers above. Cars approaching rapidly from behind have to choose a right or left lane to pass, with all the urgency and risk that Luke Skywalker had in trying to place the kill shot on the Death Star – without the assistance of the force.

  I always had to work very hard at getting from point A (home) to point B (work) without getting side swiped or killed. Between my sacred abode and work was Detroit. I lived in the suburbs and worked in the suburbs, but Detroit was smack dab in the middle. You had to take I-94 to get to and from, with no alternate worth mentioning. There was no driving through Detroit outside of the expressway. The risks on I-94 were like the risk of challenging a kindergartner to a fight compared to what that city offered. Replace kindergartner with any MMA fighter and you get my drift.

  I am not talking about the Detroit that people see when they would visit the sports stadiums, casinos or the DIA. It’s not the “Made in Detroit” hipster logo, and it’s not filled with scents of patchouli oil or the sounds of techno music. It’s not the Detroit in commercials where a shiny car drives through the tall buildings downtown while a choir sings and a rap star talks about pride (while residing in a mansion in the suburbs no less).

  I am talking about the post-apocalyptic neighborhoods that more resemble Fallujah than an urban city built on the dreams of the auto industry. The only apocalypse here was as a result of a political machine that for decades exploited the people for personal power and financial gain. The city was dead as it was, but that was only going to get worse - much worse.

  Chapter 3

  Arriving to work at the PD was no different than any other day. A quick change into my duty gear, followed by a quick roll call, then straight out of the chute answering radio runs held over from the previous shift. At least I was in a two-man car with my best friend.

  My partner, Bobby Popeto, was more a brother to me than if he had actually been born of the same mother and father. We had known each other since before grade school and grew up on the same block. I called him Bobby. He preferred Rob. You see, Bobby went through the Robert name development process as we grew up. Elementary school was “Bobby”. Middle school was “Robbie”. High school into college was “Rob”. He cringed being called anything other than his adult developed name, Rob, but I couldn’t remember a time that he wasn’t baseball card trading Bobby to me.

  “8-60 check the welfare of the resident at 5980 Faust. Neighbors report the resident there has not been seen in several days and there is mail uncollected in the mailbox” was the first dispatch of the day.

  “8-60, copy and enroute” Bobby replied. “Oh man, I hate these!” he said with a grimace, “Nothing ever good comes of these checks and I already wasn’t feeling too good today – now we have to deal with this right off the bat!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “it’s cool enough still that maggots won’t be festering in his eye sockets.”

  Bobby gagged a bit and I could tell that he just threw up a bit in his mouth.

  He was a good cop - one of the best, but he had a weak stomach when it came to the darker aspects of our profession. We had both been on the force for well over fifteen years, but he never got used to the occasional gore that came with the job. I never did either actually, I just had a better way of masking it with a healthy dose of sarcastic humor.

  “8-60 on scene” Bobby radioed.

  Upon pulling up to the house, you would never know someone was living there. The grass was uncut and shin high, fresh leaves that had fallen from the trees forcing down the overgrown blades of grass that would have been knee high otherwise. Scattered newspapers littered the driveway and mail was in and around the front porch mailbox. A Buick Century, complete with an old school compass and seat covers, was parked up the drive. Dirty film on the car indicated that it had not been moved in some time.

  Walking up to the front porch, Bobby knocked on the door. After several attempts, it was clear that no one was available to answer our request for entry.

  “8-60 no response at the door, we will be gaining entry and will advise,” Bobby radioed.

  “8-60 okay,” replied dispatch.

  Bobby opened the front storm door and checked the wood entry door, which was locked. The thick oak frame of the door was going to be a challenge to forcibly open, if the deadbolt was any indicator of how secure this entryway was.

  We ushered around to the side entrance and found an aluminum-framed door with decorative glass panes. “Better than mule kicking the front, eh?” I said, to which Bobby replied by knocking out the lower panes to gain entry. As Bobby reached in to unlock the door, his face flushed red.

  “What’s wrong Bobby?”

  “Nothing, except next time I’ll check the door to see if it’s locked before I break the glass.” he replied as he turned the handle on an unlocked door with a now broken window.

  “Nice job, rookie.”

  As the door opened, a warm musty breeze welcomed us. Within that breeze was the sickening putrid sour smell of death that we were all too accustomed to on these calls. The home was well lit as almost every light in the house was turned on, but every window was covered with drapes keeping the natural light from coming in. As we entered the home through the basement landing to kitchen and living room beyond, we found our homeowner.

  Laying face down and nuzzled into the old green shag carpeting was a part fleshy colored, part black and blistering decaying form that was once a living soul. Viscous dark liquid was emanating from every orifice, and there was a trail of vomitus material leading from down the hallway that came to rest under our newly found friend. There was no need to check for a pulse, but we had to do some basic police work to determine the identity of the form at our feet and perform a cursory check of the home. A quick rummage through the kitchen revealed a wallet, which contained a state identification card that read ‘William Bernard Kowalski’.

  Bobby advised dispatch to send the medical examiner, and started looking for a number to notify the next of kin. Looking at Bill - I though William was too formal and most people preferred that to Willy - I couldn’t be positive that it was him. Given the decomposition, the length of hair that appeared to have grown out in contrast to the ID card and the non-descript sweat suit Bill was wearing, I told Bobby we should turn him over to get a positive ID before positively identifying Bill as our nearly departed. Since the medical examiner only bagged and tagged, the responsibility was on us to identify who they would be picking up.

  Bobby quickly argued, and wasn’t eager to go through with a positive identification. When I argued that we couldn’t even tell if it was a ‘him’ or a ‘her’, Bobby picked up an envelope on the counter with a travel voucher from Delta.

  “Look! It’s right here! Bill obviously just got back from Florida a few weeks ago, got the virus and died! Simple as… “ Bobby trailed off, his eyes a million miles away.

  I could tell by the look in his eyes that Bobby had heard the gurgling moan too, but we were both too frozen to look at the source of the noise. It wouldn’t have been the first time a decomposing body had released its gasses in what amounted to a last resounding death cry, but it still spooked the hell out of you every time you heard it.

  “Fine, Bobby huffed, “ Let’s ID this gas bag and get our asses outside for the medical examiner then.” We both donned our protective rubber gloves to save us from whatever would come from flipping Bill face up.

  I was the senior officer by two ID numbers, so I took the legs. That left Bobby with the head. As we crouched down and gripped the ends of Bill, Bobby winced in disgust.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Just a little, eh, slippery at this end. He’s oozing at his eye sockets and he’s been napping so long he’s drooling.” Bobby said with a
nervous chuckle to lighten the mood of the deed we were about to perform.

  We agreed to move on “3”. Timing was of the essence so that one side did not twist before the other. Decomposition had a nasty way of making the skin and the fluids contained much like a fragile water balloon – only, when this balloon pops, you never get the smell or the stain out.

  I had a good grip on Bill’s ankles, with my fingers supporting the shins as the body began to shift. All of a sudden there was a muted tearing noise and a crescendo of a suction sound coming from Bobby’s end. Unfortunately, Bill’s face had become one with the green shag carpeting during the decomposition process. Our attempts to move him were now separating that union and removing his face in the process. It was the equivalent of trying to remove an overcooked omelet stuck to a pan.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Bobby yelled as he lurched up with Bill’s head, face matter stretching from the carpet and remaining latched his chin. Bobby tossed his end to his left, which resulted in Bill’s weakened skull caving in upon contact with the corner of the solid wood coffee table next to him.

  I tried not to laugh at the horror Bobby must have just experienced at the expense of Bill’s last bit of dignity when I saw absolute fear on Bobby’s face. Bobby was just standing there looking at his hands as if he himself had caused Bill’s demise.

  “Oh, come on Bobby. He was already dead.” I said trying to console him.

  “No, he fucking bit me! HE BIT ME!” exclaimed Bobby in a panic.

  A closer look at Bobby’s hands revealed more than just blood tinged mucus. The index and middle fingers of his right hand had a clear crescent shaped bite mark, which tore through the glove and his flesh, right to the bone. Bobby was going to need more than a few stitches for this one. He lost all color in his face as he began to bleed profusely.

  I immediately got on the radio as Bobby applied pressure to the wound.

  “8-60 please send a rescue to this location, the homeowner is confirmed DOA, but we have an injured officer.”