Zombie Resurrection Read online

  Zombie Resurrection

  #3 in the Tale of Tom Zombie Series

  By H. D. Timmons

  Copyright © 2014 H. D. Timmons

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Part 1

  Tom frequently glanced at the back-lit face of his watch to note the hours since he’d stowed away in the tractor trailer truck leaving Fort Sheridan. Enveloped by the constant darkness inside the truck, he recalled childhood notions of what lurks in the dark. The monsters under the bed, or in the closet, that could spring out at any moment to do harm or worse—eat people alive. The monsters lurking around him now in the pitch black of the 20'x8' truck were real and quite capable of eating him alive, but they were indifferent to his existence. Tom was thankful for the way he’d been altered by some military concoction that made him immune. Not so much immune rather than more zombie-like. Maybe someday he’ll find out how it was possible to be among zombies and not be devoured.

  The heat had increased, along with the humidity, making the stench unbearable for Tom during the first six hours in close quarters with his decomposing traveling companions. Even his own vomit and feces in the corner was nothing compared to the disgusting odor of hot, rotting flesh that surrounded him, smelling like week-old road kill in the middle of July.

  After twelve hours, he had grown desensitized enough to the smells that he no longer felt the trigger of a gag reflex, but still wore his shirt pulled up around his nose and mouth. The groans, gurgles and moans from the hot stinking mass were mercifully kept to a minimum, with only sporadic guttural uproars when the truck lurched to and fro, or bounced over rough terrain.

  Since the days of the failed attack on NATO members during their summer summit at Chicago’s McCormick Place, Tom felt the need to get a closer look at what Major Fleming was planning next. He couldn’t explain why he felt he needed to, he felt compelled.

  It was after several days and nights of surveillance at the fort that an opportunity presented itself. One evening Tom observed soldiers herding zombies into a convoy of tractor trailers. They were being moved, but why and where? Tom knew that a move this big had to be the break he was waiting for.

  Sleep was necessary, but not easy in these conditions. Nodding off on the floor for a few minutes of precious shut eye now and then was all Tom could hope for. When he was awake the eerie darkness held Tom’s thoughts; hanging thick in the air mingled with the humid aura of decay and his own rank sweat. After the hypno-brain-fuck he underwent at the hands of Major Fleming, many of his memories were still new to him while others seemed chronologically intact.

  Tom still grappled with the fact that he murdered a man in cold blood. Even though he couldn’t remember committing the act, he couldn’t avoid the stark reality that he had been brainwashed to kill an innocent congressman—well, as innocent as any politician can be, he supposed.

  As he tried to sleep, recollections leapt through the hoops of betrayal by his old partner Roger Norton causing his mind to fill the darkness with images from the past as slumber took hold.

  #

  Daylight appeared—neurotransmitters retrieving a memory. The reflex muscles of Tom’s eyes squeezed shut against the brightness as he slept.

  The memory was warm, familiar. His partner Roger Norton jovially slapped Tom on the back for a job well done as they left the precinct house on a bright afternoon. They’d lost their collar—at least according to the official police report—but were gleeful at the end of the day to each be going home twenty-five hundred dollars richer.

  A simple tip off that the cops were on their way. Oops! Bad guys got away with the drugs. Boom! Money in your pocket. Thanks for the gum-ball.

  Tom and Roger had a nice racket going. Made the drug dealers look smarter and the entire precinct look like idiots, but they didn’t care as long as they were padding their retirement account.

  A stop at a bar to celebrate, a little too long. Then, home to his wife Paula to continue the celebration. She wouldn’t have any of it. She pushed Tom away. He reeked of alcohol and arrogance. Tom recalled his wife was always cold when he was hot. At the time, his hubris couldn’t understand. “You’re such an ass… an ass… such an ass… ass,” Paula echoed in the background of his dream. Neurons boomeranging back and forth to alert his conscience.

  Maybe if he had told her about the money, every bit of it, Paula might understand. Two years of taking drug dealers’ payoffs made for a shit load of nontaxable cash. No. Paula was too straight-laced, too upstanding, to understand. She wouldn’t care that he was doing it for the family. Wrong was wrong. In her eyes, Tom would be no better than the criminals he’s supposed to bring to justice. Couldn’t she see that there would always be drug dealers with or without Tom on the force?

  Nope. No blurred lines with his wife. To her, everything was black and white. That’s what he loved about her when they met, but it had become an odious character flaw in recent years.

  Out of the house again and down the street. Tom waved goodbye to his daughter Holly. She peered from her bedroom window, glad that her parent’s arguing was curtailed at least for a few hours.

  One person surely would want to share in Tom’s celebratory mood, the way he wanted to celebrate. He knew just the one. Someone who still appreciated his tip off about the drug raid. A drug dealer’s sister and still turning tricks. Tom didn’t care if he had to pay her; give her back a c-note for the pleasure.

  Carla’s hands were warm, comforting, and welcome. They seemed to be everywhere at once while her lips danced kisses across Tom’s face. His brain’s electro-chemical signaling was gracious enough to allow him a glimpse of his own face as he dreamt. To him it was perfect. Skin intact, beaded with the perspiration of lust. Lips complete and full against Carla’s neck, making their way down her supple, willing body. One part of Tom’s subconscious tried to bargain with another to transpose this memory with the reality that was surely a dream—a nightmare. It had to be.

  He brushed Carla’s thick brown hair aside to kiss her neck, this time starting from the opposite side. That’s where he first spotted it. The blemish behind her ear that he discounted in the heat of the moment as eczema. The blemish that would spawn the bane of his existence. It only took a month for his symptoms to appear. That was all his wife Paula would have to see to convince her that her suspicions of Tom’s unfaithfulness were true and confront him about it. She read the papers, saw the news reports. There were specific ways in which this flesh eating virus could be passed on. She was no fool.

  Tom twitched on the floor of the darkened truck. Shook his head at the unwanted memory, shooing away a blow fly before it could find a place suitable enough in the dead tissue at Tom’s temple to leave its larvae.

  So many men. Carla would never know from whom she contracted the flesh eating virus. Although, her brother Hector would track down every man Carla suspected and beat them until the virus drained into dark alleys, nooks and crannies of the filthy sidewalk stained the sanguine shade of carmine red.

  The passion between him and Carla played out in Tom’s dream in repeating waves, and he was content to have it play on forever. It was the last real passion he’d experienced since the virus latched itself onto him. Slowly consuming him. He was going to savor this moment, his flaccid member sprung from its sweaty slumber, erect, remembering every sensation. Reliving it.

  Without warning, like a cigarette burn cue mark in the corner of a film, neurons flashed on the movie screen in his mind. The reel changed. His penis receded to dormancy. Tom found himself in a hallway in his old station hou
se, but it wasn’t exactly the same. It was a dream version of it, replete with an overabundance of unnecessary doorways leading nowhere. Corridor after corridor all ending in dead ends. He was searching for Roger Norton. Roger didn’t seem to be around as much after Tom confided in him about contracting the virus. Roger kept the secret, but seemed to become more distant. Did he think he would catch Tom’s condition? As more information became available about the flesh eating virus that had been popping up all over the globe, it was hard to not be looked at sideways. Treated like a leper. Friends, especially partners, were supposed to have each other’s backs, right?

  Roger had become scarce and Tom’s mind relived the sense of abandonment. Down another corridor in search of his partner. Finally, he caught a glimpse of him in the evidence room. Blocks of confiscated cocaine on a table, tagged and cataloged. Roger was counting. He was counting the stacks and weighing them. Why? That was already taken care of.

  Reel change. Another night with Carla. High off of another pocketful of tax free thank you money. What was the worst that could happen? He’d get a communicable disease? Been there, done that.

  Carla was on the phone with her brother about moving the fifty kilos of coke, but Tom knew it should only be forty. This time, when the police raided another of Hector’s known locations, to make it look good some of the drug cache was seized. It was Hector’s idea to let the police think that was all there was and maybe they’d leave them alone for a while. The sacrifice of a small percentage for the greater good.

  At the time, Tom’s hard-on for Carla drew the blood from his brain to not allow a second thought to the discrepancy. However, the distance of a dream gave Tom a second chance perspective. He saw clues this time, strung across several seemingly unrelated events. This was no longer a sleep induced trip down memory lane. Recollections were welcome considering the memory loss he’d briefly suffered, but by being recently restored he was able to experience them with a fresh set of subconscious eyes.

  Tom finally understood that Roger hadn’t been avoiding him. He was just being secretive. How many times had Roger Norton made unnecessary, repeated visits to the evidence room after a drug seizure? How many more kilos of seized drugs seemed to re-appear in the hands of the dealers, yet still remain behind lock and key in the station house? Neurons sparked like New Year’s Eve fireworks. Tom’s mind strung together connections of his old partner like he was sifting through an archive of microfiche. Norton’s increasingly shifty behavior, mixed with a dash of Major Fleming to spice it up… and BAM! You’ve got a recipe for disaster.

  Tom sat bolt upright, the low flying blow fly squashed under his right butt cheek. His mind had done all the legwork and now demanded Tom’s alertness to logically assemble the puzzle pieces his subconscious had gathered for him. It finally all came together. He knew Fleming had recruited Roger and paid him handsomely. He knew it had something to do with the spread of the epidemic, but now it all clicked. Drugs tainted with the virus were recirculated back into the drug addicted population. Of course. If anyone could get their hands on replacement drugs easily enough it was the military. Good Ol’ Rog would tell Fleming the weight and size of the drugs seized and, presto, a duplicate batch with a special ingredient would make its way back onto the street. The police wouldn’t be the wiser and the dealers would hail Roger as their very own Robin Hood, presuming he’d stolen back the drugs straight from evidence lock-up. It was brilliant. Fleming probably had similar scenarios playing out in other cities. Hell, in other countries, for that matter.

  Tom spoke to thin air. “Roger, Roger, Roger. You couldn’t even cut your old partner in on the action? Damn. And I thought I was greedy.” He laughed. “Yeah. You’re right. I wouldn’t have gone for it anyway. I might be willing to tarnish my badge a little to fund my retirement, but I draw the line at helping to create the worst epidemic known to mankind. I’m funny that way.”

  Part 2

  Hours turned into days, which he hadn’t anticipated. Long gone was the need to cover his nose with his shirt because it no longer proved a deterrent to the stench. Tom’s growing fatigue from lack of food and water made it easier for him to sleep for longer stretches of time. But whether awake or asleep all he saw was darkness. It would have been maddening if he had let it get to him. Talking out loud seemed to help. Got him out of his head. He was surrounded by people, albeit not possessing intelligence enough for conversation—not much different than the jar heads at the station, he chuckled to himself. Tom felt lonely for human contact and struggled to make due in the dark.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” Tom asked himself. He then turned to the corpse he heard groaning softly in the darkness to his right and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Ya know… if you think about it, we are really both pawns in whatever Major Fleming’s game is. The only difference is that one of us is brain dead.” Tom held up his wrist and pressed the button that made his watch face glow, shining it on his conversation partner’s hamburger-like face. “So, what’s your excuse?” Tom laughed deliriously at his own joke; spit dribbling down the left side of his whiskered chin because his eroded lip had trouble holding back the saliva.

  “Seriously, if I had any brain at all I would have seen what my partner was up to and maybe I could have stopped him. Would it have really made a difference? Probably not. So, I take back what I said. If I had any brains at all I’d be with my daughter, Holly, instead of in this truckload of maggot food. But, at least she’s safe now and that’s all I ever wanted.” Tom looked to his right again with the sense of direction of a blind man. “You got any kids?” A wheeze was all his traveling companion gave in reply.

  Tom groped through the dark, slid a hand into the back pocket of his new friend, and pulled out a wallet. He flipped through it until he felt the plastic of photo sleeves and studied the contents under the light of his watch. “Nice family,” Tom said. “I’ll bet they miss you. Or, maybe they are zombies too. Huh? Hey, let’s just keep positive here. Let’s presume they are as alive as my daughter and you and I are on a mission to make sure they stay that way. What’d ya say, partner?” Tom pressed his knuckles to the air waiting for a fist bump that wouldn’t come.

  Tom flipped through the wallet again locating the man’s driver’s license and a name. “Hey, nice picture… Garvin Levine—from Lincolnwood. WOW! You’ve really let yourself go, dude. I guess I have too.

  “Look, you’ve got to agree that we’re connected. I mean, it was my partner that helped Fleming create you, so it’s like a six degrees of separation thing. Every one of us in this truck is connected and…,” Tom leans closer to whisper to his gurgling friend, “between you and me, I think Major Fleming thinks he’s in control of what he’s created, but it’s gotten way out of hand. I don’t think he thought his virus would spread so quickly. It’s up to you and me to put an end to it before the world is overrun with zombies. No offense, Garvin.

  “Maybe this is it. Maybe this is my one last shot at redemption. Maybe this is all I was meant to do, and all the time leading up to this was just idle time until this moment presented itself. Don’t get me wrong. I can’t help you. That ship has sailed, but there’s a chance that if I follow this trail to the end I will be able to do something in what time I have left that makes sense of my existence. Sure, I saved the president and his NATO pals, but what good is that if everyone’s going to be a good for nothin’ zombie anyway? No offense, again, Garvin. Tell you what. If you come up with a plan, you let me know. Okay?”

  #

  Hours dragged on, as did more random conversations. A few jarring bumps as the truck meandered along its journey tossed bodies into each other, knocked together like bowling pins. Generally, it was some lumbering oaf that would fall against Tom like it was rush hour on the L train, but one fortuitous bump had Tom feeling the softness of ample breasts against him, as welcome as a summer sun shower. To steady her, Tom groped her like a schoolboy behind the bleachers and became aroused enough to not care what
she was. He was horny and in the dark the anonymity was preferred to the visual reality. She’s not a real woman. He kept telling himself. She might as well be a blow up doll, Tom reasoned. He began to fumble with her blouse, and felt that she wore a necklace. Dangling from it, nestled in her cleavage was the letter S. “Let’s see. S, eh? I’m gonna guess it stands for Susan. Well, Susan, I must say it’s nice to bump into you.” He loosened her top button. “I don’t usually undress a woman until the second date, but things being what they are and all…” He moved on to the next button, she gave a low growl and the stench of her breath wafting to his nostrils couldn’t be ignored. What was I thinking? He quickly turned Susan around and nudged her to walk in the opposite direction. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

  Tom shuddered at the thought of what he’d contemplated. Sex with a zombie. Was I really willing to stick my dick into… into that?! I’m losing’ it, cooped up in here. He longed for his dreams of Carla, but now the thought conjured up visions of Carla with the full blown effects of the zombie virus covering her entire body.

  He slammed his fist against the steel wall. Pain and anger to change gears in his head. He tried to remember when things were normal. His life before the virus. Life with Paula. He did love his wife—ex-wife. He never stopped. Paula was… is… a good woman, he reminded himself. It was his greed and arrogance that separated them.

  In the beginning, Paula was proud to be married to a cop. Chicago’s finest. A symbol of righteousness to protect and serve. Even though she understood that cops were human too, she saw Tom as her shining knight and protector of all. It took Tom fifteen years before he developed cracks in his armor. Paula was no fool and began to notice his cockiness, his mood shifts, the way he and his partner Roger seemed secretive and would stay out drinking way too much. He would come home frisky, smelling of alcohol—You’re an ass… an ass—Paula had her suspicions when he would bolt out the door again and stay gone all night.