Escape From the Planet of the Dead Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dead-i-cation

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Coming Next...

  Flesh Eaters

  About The Author

  Other Works

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SHADOW WORK PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2019 by Thomas S. Flowers

  All rights reserved.

  Edited by Chad A. Clark

  Cover art by Travis Eck

  ISBN: 978-1-988819-19-8

  Dead-i-cation

  To the late great George A. Romero and his epic 1985 film DAY of the DEAD—in which a few chapters of this book drew inspiration. May his incredible work live on in the hearts of his fans.

  Previously on Planet of the Dead

  On the night Jonny and Karen went to see the Astros defeat the Braves, everything seemed normal—until suddenly it wasn’t. Reports started broadcasting on news networks of mass panic and violence spreading across the globe. A virus had taken root—a strain never seen before. Officials within the scientific community, the World Health Organization and the Center for Disease Control among them, argued over what the virus was and how to stop it from spreading. But nothing worked. Negligent leaders hid behind misinformation. Struggling to survive against a sweeping epidemic that had engulfed the planet, survivors were forced to make hard choices in a world that no longer made sense. Homes were no longer places of refuge. Loved ones bitten or sick could no longer be trusted. Fever stricken minds desperate to cling to life, no matter the cost. But in the end, they died—and turned. They always turned.

  In the expanding outbreak, refugees took shelter in boarded-up homes and bunkers and apartment complexes. Across the world, armed police and military struggled to maintain control. Extermination squads swept through districts. As tensions mounted, nuclear weapons were used on civilian populations overrun with the living dead. In the blink of an eye, Seattle, Los Angeles, New York City, Chicago and Phoenix were vaporized in a desperate attempt to stem the growing horde of infected.

  As the pandemic continued, a coup mounted between warring factions of what remained of the United States military. The siege of Washington D.C. was horrific and bloody. Similar battles erupted throughout the United States. In Texas, General Rusk claimed supremacy—ruthlessly clearing towns of the contagion—by any means necessary.

  Among the survivors, Jelks and Collins—two AWOL extermination squad soldiers, Polk—an Iraq War veteran with a cybernetically enhanced arm and Doctor Ahuja—a former Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency scientist were forced to fight both the living and the dead as they sought refuge from a planet plagued by war and fear.

  Several months later, radiation and ash from the atomic bombs have clouded the sky—blocking out the sun. Nuclear winter scorches the land with freezing temperatures. And the dead march in the millions. Hidden in an undisclosed underground bunker off the coast of China, Doctor Ying searches for a cure. Traveling east along I-10, Polk, Jelks, Collins, and Doctor Ahuja follow a rumor that may be too good to be true. And as General Rusk basks in the glory of his own created paradise, a storm is brewing. But this is no meteorological phenomena. There is something coming from the wastelands of the north that could very well wipe the last dregs of humanity off the face of the planet.

  The News

  90.1 KPFT

  Static crinkled through the speakers of the unknown survivors; those left within the bandwidth of Houston’s last remaining network. After a few electronic beeps, voices begin coming through.

  “Nothing,” a tired male voice croaked.

  “Send it again,” said a woman.

  “I’ve been broadcasting—there’s nothing; nobody, or at least nobody with a radio.”

  “All right. We have to keep trying.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

  Houston is a big city—I refuse to believe nobody is out there listening.”

  Someone cleared their throat— “I think we’re on the air.”

  Laughter, a hot, festering, tired sort of laughter, not the kind that actually brings joy or satisfaction, but the kind that comes from too many sleepless nights; the kind of laughter that has seen too much; a laughter that is on the brink of despair.

  After a moment the woman spoke again, “Anybody on this station. This is KPFT 90.1. If you can hear me, please listen carefully...”

  Static filled the speakers, again cut in with frustrated voices.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  “Is it working?”

  “If there is anyone there...”

  Static.

  And then the fuzzing snow cleared.

  “Hello? If you can hear me—there are flights, the last flights leaving the city. These volunteers can get you to safety. General Rusk has taken control of most major roadways leaving Houston. We have reason to believe that Ft. Hood is not a place of refuge—it is an internment camp, pressing those fleeing the cities and towns into slave labor. You are not safe out there alone.”

  Some shuffling of paper and murmurs from the radio broadcasters as they argued over something that sounded important.

  “I don’t know how long we can stay on the air. But if you are able, there are flights leaving out of La Porte Municipal Airport,” the woman said. She was out of breath and straining her words. “Organized by a local group of pilots. We do not know how many will be able to get out—but it’s a chance. Maybe our only chance of getting out.”

  Dead air for a moment.

  “Fallout is still causing interference with our signal. Temperatures are continuing to drop. I can’t remember Houston ever being this cold. Even at 25 degrees—we can survive, but for how long? Stores and gas stations have been picked clean. No Red Cross. No CDC. Power outages throughout the city. Nothing from the Mayor or Governor, assuming they’re still alive. No rescue is coming. No police. No fire and rescue crews. Hospitals are abandoned, all but for the sleepless dead. Not even a news briefing from Washington—not since... and the threat of a nuclear bombs being used on our city...”

  Some argument with the radio staff.

  “—we don’t know. We can’t rule it out. The dead are overflowing the streets. I-45, 610, I-10, the beltway—completely gridlocked with abandoned cars, buses, and the walking dead,” the woman said, her voice becoming manic in short, quick bursts. “Houston is a dead zone; we’re all dead, we just don’t know it yet.”

  More arguments and then a man’s voice replaced the woman.

  “We’re all a bit tired, but we are going to stick around for as long as we can, giving you up to date information as it becomes available. Until then, we’re turning over to Blues in Hi-Fi with Clint Broussard—Clint?”

  Some muffling and then a low gravelly voice boomed over the radio. “Well kids, it sounds like it’s time to switch gears. Welcome to Blues in Hi-Fi—on 90.1, listener supported radio for peace. Let’s get this party started, so lock your doors and keep out of site as we dive into some of the best tunes from Beale Street, The French Qu
arter, Kansas City, Chicago’s South Side, The Mississippi Delta, The Brill Building In New York, Houston’s own 3rd ward, and much more!”

  A rustling sounded, almost like a needle being set down on a spinning record. Moments later a French horn blared through the speakers, soon followed by the smooth jazzy voice of Louis Jordan singing about how when you’re dead you’re gone, so let the good times roll. Just below the music, for those listening carefully, was the faint sound of someone snickering.

  Greg

  Endeavor Clear Lake Luxury Condominiums

  Seabrook, TX

  “Turn that crap off,” Phillip grumbled. “Their squawking is giving me a headache.” Laying on the couch, he began rubbing his temples.

  “They’re saying there are flights going out of La Porte,” Greg said, turning his ear closer to the radio on the kitchen marble counter.

  “Nonsense. Have you seen the conditions outside? No way anyone can fly in this kind of weather. Frozen fuel lines. Ice on the runway—insanity. Besides, we’ve got a good thing going here. We’re safe and warm. And from this vantage point, we can see what’s coming for miles.” Phillip stood from the couch and went to the glass sliding door. He gestured with his hand to the horizon beyond the porch that overlooked the city from the twenty-fifth floor of the condominium. He had paid a premium for this view. And out of the eighty other residents, they were perhaps the last.

  Greg shook his head, turning the radio down. “Yeah—but for how long? We’re constantly raiding the lobby pantry—soon there won’t be enough food. Or water. The power went down weeks ago. The generators will go, eventually.”

  Phillip turned from the doors. “When did you become such a pessimist, Greg?”

  Greg crossed his arms. “When dead people started moving around and attacking people. And I’m not a pessimist; I’m a realist—as in I’m really serious about this, Phil. We need to start thinking about an escape plan.”

  Walking to the kitchen, Phillip asked, “I’m hungry. Do you want anything?”

  Greg turned and watched his boyfriend of going on five years now, pulling his usual denial tactic by changing the conversation. On their second date, Greg had asked if Phillip wanted to meet his parents. Not on good terms with his own folks, Phillip asked if Greg wanted to go on a Caribbean cruise instead. Before moving into the Endeavor Condominiums, Greg asked Phillip what the price was. Phil’s response was a dinner reservation at Broken Barrel, owned by Houston’s Best New Chef Hilda Ysusi—during an entrees of market fish draped in garlicky Uruguayan-style chimichurri with a side of Greek-style quinoa Greg mentioned that he had already signed the lease.

  “Greg?” Phillip asked again.

  Greg said nothing. With his arms crossed, he glared at Phillip.

  After a long hesitation, Phillip sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow we can scavenge around. Maybe get into the other condos. Stock up on our previsions.”

  Greg half smiled. “That’s a start.”

  Phillip smiled back.

  Noticing the sleek black wrapped candy bar in Phillip’s hand, Greg asked, “Is that the last Snickers?”

  ***

  They walked quietly down the hall. The condominium felt like a tomb—silent and cold, the only sounds were the low buzzing of the dim hallway lights and the thudding in Greg’s chest.

  “Are we going to Barbie’s place?” Greg whispered.

  Leading the way to the condo next door, Phillip shrugged. “Figured we’d start on our own floor. Besides, we haven’t heard a peep from the old hag since this all started. Remember the exodus? She probably went with them.”

  Greg shuddered at the memory. Months ago, when the news stations were still on the air and they were all broadcasting about nuclear bombs being launched on Seattle and then New York. And then footage from some siege on Washington DC. There was a huge uproar in the complex. The board members arranged for a charter bus to take everyone out of town. There was talk of going to Ft. Hood, the popular idea being what safer place could there be than a military base. One of the board members of the complex had knocked on their door—demanding they join the others, for their own safety—so they had said. At the time it was all too sudden. Nothing felt safe. But now...

  “Here we go,” Phillip said. He reached into the jeans pocket and pulled out a key ring.

  “Where did you get those?” Greg asked, keeping his voice hushed.

  “Where do you think? From the lobby desk.”

  “I didn’t know they kept a master key.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? You know, in case of emergencies.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.”

  “Are you done?”

  “Yeah—lets go inside.”

  Shaking his head, Phillip inserted the master key. Slowly, as quietly as he could, he turned the knob. The door creaked open. They stood in the archway. Inside it was dark, except for what little light came from the closed drapes.

  “Do you think she’s in here?” Greg asked.

  “Barbie—you home?” Phillip shouted.

  Greg jumped. “Christ, Phil—you could have warned me.”

  Phillip shrugged and took a step inside.

  Greg held his breath.

  “Barbie?” Phillip called again.

  Nothing.

  “Told you. She left with everyone else,” Phillip said, gesturing for Greg to follow him inside. “Come on, let’s look around. See what the hag has for us.”

  Greg peered over his shoulder. Behind him, the hallway was still empty and dimly lit. Exhaling, he took a step inside, keeping his hands and arms close to his side and up as if he were going to slap away anything that might jump out at him. The doorway led into a large living room, similar in design to their own, except Barbie’s taste in décor was more seasoned then theirs. Her TV was small and was mounted on the far wall. Placed in front of it was a puffy recliner that looked worn and frayed along the edges. Also in the living room was a two-seater couch that didn’t match the recliner nor any other piece of furniture. Against one wall stood an antique looking waist-high cabinet. Perched on top was a radio that looked as if it belonged from the fifties, a flamingo pink metal device with large dials and a box screen for speakers. Covering most of the floor was an oriental rug.

  He could hear Phillip rummaging in the kitchen. “Anything?” Greg called.

  “Depends—are you a fan of prunes?” Phillip called back.

  “Great.”

  “Crème of wheat?”

  “Pass.”

  “How about Metamucil?”

  “What about water?”

  “Nope—no water pressure here, either. Must be out in the entire complex.”

  “No shit.”

  “Don’t be nasty.”

  “Is there anything?”

  Phillip gagged. “Nothing worth mentioning in the fridge.”

  “So, nothing? Perfect.” Greg whined.

  “Oh!”

  “What?”

  “Found Barbie’s stash of mixed hard candies.”

  ***

  They took the stairs to the next floor. Phillip was pretty sure the elevators would work with the generators—but Greg didn’t want to risk getting stuck if the power failed permanently, or worse—plummeting twenty or so floors to the bottom.

  “Are you going to knock first?” Greg asked, standing with Phillip before another Endeavor condominium.

  “What for?” Phillip asked.

  “If there’s someone in there...”

  “What don’t you understand about mass exodus?”

  “Are you telling me everyone in this building up and left?”

  “Yes—that’s what mass exodus means.”

  “I seriously doubt everyone left.”

  Phillip growled. “You are such a pain sometimes.” He inserted the master key and quickly opened the door.

  “Phil?” Greg cried.

  Just like with Barbie’s place, the door swung wide, revealing empty, cold darkness within. The only light squeezed between close
d drapes. But there was something different.

  “Oh jeez, what’s that smell?” Greg wheezed, covering his mouth and nose with his hand.

  Phillip took a step inside. He pulled his t-shirt collar up, covering his lower face. “I don’t know—but we’re here now. Might as well take a look around, see what we find.”

  “I don’t like it—lets leave,” Greg said. He didn’t follow Phillip inside. He watched his boyfriend disappear into the gloom of the condo. Waiting for what felt like forever, he listened carefully for any sound.

  “Greg—I think there’s someone—”

  “Phillip?”

  A door opened somewhere inside.

  “Jesus!” Phillip yelled.

  “Phillip? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  Greg took a cautionary step inside. Not wanting to go any further; unable to will his legs to move, he peered into the dark, searching for a sign his boyfriend was okay.

  There was a muffled thump and a scream.

  “Phil!”

  A moment later Phillip stumbled out of the dark. He cradled his hand. Blood poured between his fingers, plopping on the hardwood floors of the condo.

  “My God, what happened?” Greg whined, instinctively reaching out, wanting to hold Phillip, to cradle him, protect him from whatever danger there was. But he pulled his hands back at the sight of the blood. His stomach knotted.

  “Run!” Phillip moaned.

  “What?” Greg blinked, unsure of what to do.

  “RUN!”

  Greg sputtered out something that sounded like a why. And then he could see the man coming behind Phillip. The resident of the condo—or so he assumed.

  Phillip grabbed Greg and shoved him toward the doorway.

  Stumbling, Greg started toward the stairs. He held the door open for Phillip. He paused, unable to move as he watched the dead man stagger from the open condo door. He looked pale and his clothes were soiled. His shirt sleeves were pulled up, revealing dark gnarled looking slashes down his forearms. The dead thing moaned as if it was lonely or hungry or both.