Zombies in Paradise (Love in the Age of Zombies Book 2) Read online

  As he was midway through adding the twine to his second bed, he was startled to hear the sound of a dog barking nearby—very nearby. He glanced over to the Ericksons’ house and saw a German shepherd racing furiously toward the chain link fence separating the yards. Doc recalled what Kevin had said about the man and his dog, so he stood up straight and looked around. He saw no one. He began to walk slowly toward the dog, who continued to bark angrily through the fence. When Doc was about twenty feet away, the dog turned and ran as if he’d been called, although Doc hadn’t heard or seen anyone.

  Puzzled, Doc went through the gate between Kevin and Michelle’s house and hurried to the front, just in time to see the dog follow a man between two houses farther up the block. The man moved with stealth, as if he didn’t want to be seen. Doc went downstairs, where Michelle was slicing cherry tomatoes and adding them to a pot on the stove, probably making pasta sauce.

  “Hey, Doc,” Michelle said. “What’s up? You have a funny look on your face.”

  “Remember when Kevin talked about the guy he saw? The guy with the dog in the next subdivision? I just saw him!”

  “Really?! Was he friendly?”

  “No, he wasn’t. I almost didn’t see him. His dog must have heard me whistling as I dug the garden, because he was barking and snarling at me from your neighbors’ house. Then the dog ran away. I went to the front yard and saw the man and dog disappear between two houses. I don’t think he wanted to be seen. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  “Hmm . . . “ Michelle responded, still slicing cherry tomatoes. “I guess if he wanted to attack you he could have, what with his dog and all. But if he isn’t a threat, why didn’t he speak to you?”

  “That’s what I don’t get. Either he’s a friend or an enemy, right? There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground. I suppose I could head over to the school and confront him, but I don’t like the idea of tangling with a German shepherd. I guess I’ll just let it go. Maybe he’s an isolationist. I’ll play it cool but keep my eyes open, perhaps he’ll come around again. From now on, I’ll carry my revolver with me!”

  “Having him out there and acting weird kind of freaks me out,” Michelle said, “I hope we don’t have any trouble with him. So far our experience with survivors has been none too pleasant. How much longer are you going to work in the yard?”

  “I think I’m done for the day. Since I saw the guy disappear, I’m pretty sure he didn’t see me come inside our house. He probably thinks I live next door and I see no reason to convince him otherwise. I’ll stay indoors and be careful to make very little sound,” Doc said, reaching over to tear some basil leaves. “Making pasta sauce? When’s dinner?”

  “It should be ready in about a half-hour. I need to add some spices to the sauce and let it cook for a while. Too bad Kevin didn’t think to get some parmesan cheese. I love parmesan cheese on pasta!”

  They made small talk for a few more minutes. Doc told her how he’d found the box of seeds, and they both dreamed of having fresh herbs and vegetables again. The appeal of the hydroponic lettuce, peppers, kale, and cherry tomatoes had worn thin. No matter how you slice it, a cherry tomato can’t take the place of a juicy Big Boy tomato.

  While the sauce slowly simmered, Doc went upstairs and peered out the windows. Nothing looked amiss. If the man was out there watching, he was well hidden.

  Two hundred miles away, Kevin had arrived at Lake Menekaunee and was sitting on the floor of the washhouse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kevin put the journal down, depressed. His past here had been filled with friends, laughter, and hedonism. It was a vacation resort, after all, and the memories he’d made came back clearly. He recalled nights spent drinking and dancing at the Big Apple or playing pool at Dinghy’s, or listening to music at the Cabbage Shed. Occasionally a carload drove to the Cherry Bowl near Beulah to watch a movie double-feature under the stars, munching popcorn with real butter. In the past few years he’d been a frequent visitor to Stormcloud. He nearly laughed thinking about the late night twenty years ago when a bunch of them, energized by alcohol, had come back to the resort quite late. Some of them gathered on the veranda for a nightcap or last cigarette; several, including Kevin, decided to skinny-dip. They quickly ditched their clothes, ran down the stairs, and dove into the dark lake water. While they were swimming to the raft, a prankster stole their clothes, and piled them on the veranda. Kevin, like the rest, had to dash the length of the dock naked while flashlights played upon his torso. As he scrambled up the steps to put on his clothes, he laughed at himself along with the onlookers. That was when he was single. Before he met Tammy. Before she started coming here. Before she died.

  He felt like he needed to do something. Sitting here in the dark, getting more depressed by the minute, was not what he needed. Despite his reservations about going outside in the dark, he decided to check out the lake. He hadn’t seen or heard or anything to cause alarm (other than the dead body in the car), and was feeling antsy in the small washhouse. He quietly unlocked the door and stepped out into the night air. There was no sound in the whisper of the breeze except the faint sound of Lake Michigan’s surf. He headed down the sidewalk past the inn toward the veranda on the clear but moonless night. He had to move quietly and slowly to avoid running into unseen obstacles. His heart jumped a few times when he stepped on a stick and the snap! echoed off the buildings.

  Where a fountain used to splash, now there was only a pile of dry leaf-strewn rocks. He stopped on the gravel driveway and looked over the darkened lake. No matter what time of year he had been here, there were always lights shining from the homes across the lake, then a dark strip of tree line against the horizon. The lights of Frankfort usually filled the sky with a soft glow. The beam from the lighthouse flashed by every thirty seconds.

  But there were no lights tonight. The stars shone brightly, more brightly than he had ever seen. Without light pollution, the stars were so brilliant he could see trees silhouetted against the night sky. The slight breeze was chilly. Turning around to face the inn, he was again struck by the complete darkness. He couldn’t see the inn, but could feel its presence. He always thought of it as a welcoming friend. Now it was nothing more than a dark form against the night sky. No longer was it a source of comfort, of camaraderie, of meals with friends. Instead, it felt more like a coffin, a tomb. It felt threatening, especially with the dead person in the car nearby. He wondered if anyone stood behind the glass, watching him. Perhaps a survivor. Or more likely a zombie had sensed his presence.

  He walked onto the veranda. Constructed of poured concrete about fifty feet wide and thirty feet deep, a railing lined the lake side, interrupted by stairs descending to the beach and dock. He carefully walked down the steps, feeling his way while constantly holding on to the bannister. He felt for the dock and stopped a moment, listening carefully for any sounds. Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he walked down the dock. Barely able to see, he used the quiet sound of the water riffling against the pylons to guide him. He stopped when his instincts told him he was fairly close to the end of the dock. He could very faintly make out a white shape on the water; the raft. The raft where he’d lain on his back getting sun with friends, laughing and talking, the raft where he’d watched the stars at night, the raft where he’d had sex one drunken night with a housekeeper from the inn. He liked the raft and the memories it held.

  He wondered what happened here during the Collapse. Was there a skeleton crew of workers, taking care of autumn chores as they closed up shop for the winter? Did they hear of a sudden zombie outbreak spreading north from Manistee, and leave their jobs in a panic, anxious to find safety for their families? Was the place rapidly deserted, or had a few year-round residents stayed put, only to end up being victims of zombies? Or were there still survivors in hiding?

  The fact that he was standing on the dock—or sitting, actually, as by then he’d taken off his shoes and socks and was dangling his feet in the cold lake water—told him t
he resort had been abandoned in early October. If it had been any later, the dock would have been pulled out of the water for the winter. Likewise with the raft—he knew they didn’t leave it in the lake all year. Everyone must have left in a hurry or else been attacked and killed by zombies. Some folks must have turned. But he hadn’t seen any indication of mayhem, no signs of death, other than the corpse in the car. He hadn’t seen any blood, no signs of violence, no zombies. He felt like a character in a Twilight Zone episode where everybody in town has simply vanished. He was the only man left alive, abandoned on Lake Menekaunee.

  Chapter fourteen

  While Kevin wasn’t usually the type to act impulsively, he attempted to shake off his increasing depression and paranoia by swimming out to the raft. After all, he rationalized, this really could be his last chance. He may never come here again. He wanted to see the stars one more time while lying on the raft. With that thought he quickly disrobed and eased into the water, cringing. It was damn cold, especially when the water reached his groin. It took an act of courage to completely immerse himself. He slowly side-stroked away from the dock and into the lake, anxious to climb aboard the raft which appeared suddenly in front of him. He skirted the side of the raft until he felt the ladder.

  As his feet found the steps, he pulled himself up and out of the lake. His right foot came splashing out of the water and onto the top step. He was greeted by an overwhelming stench; a split second later a crepuscular hand grabbed his wrist. With a shout of alarm, he lurched back into the water just as the teeth of a zombie grazed the skin of his forearm. He jerked back so hard he took the half-rotted zombie arm with him, wrenching it from the zombie’s body with a dull wet snap. It splashed into the black water and sank with a gurgle. The zombie paced the side of the raft, agitated at having come so close to biting Kevin. Silhouetted against the starry sky, it began making the rasping sound he had come to dread.

  He swam back to shore in a panic, wading onto the beach and crawling onto the dock to retrieve his clothing. The zombie’s been stranded on the raft. Maybe someone got bit and swam out here, knowing they couldn't hurt anyone if they turned, he thought. It had been stranded since the fall—through the storms of November, the snows of winter, and through the thaw of spring. No wonder the arm was so brittle, having been exposed to the elements for so long! How it stayed “alive” atop the raft during the gales, when the waves must surely have bounced the raft around, was beyond Kevin’s imagination.

  Every hair on the back of his neck stood up as he heard the zombie rasping. Seconds later he broke out in goosebumps as he heard responsive zombie rasps from around the lake. The calls from across the lake were barely audible, but he heard a few on the eastern side. That’s around Simon Turner’s place, he thought. One was nearer, close to his side of the lake. He didn’t hear any from the grounds of the resort, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He hastily put his shoes on, grabbed the rest of his clothes and sprinted the length of the dock and up the steps to the veranda. This was the second time he had run the length of the dock completely naked. The first time was fun.

  He scrambled up the cement steps two at a time and stumbled over the last one, tumbling to the pavement and painfully skinning his knee. He knelt there, breathing hard, hoping the zombies couldn’t sense his blood. He strained his ears for any kind of sound over the pounding of his heart while he quickly pulled on his clothes. Despite his near panic, he knew he had to stop and listen. There were zombies around; he had to be careful. He couldn’t just run pell-mell into the night. There could be one just behind a tree or in the shadow of a cottage. The big maple by the tennis courts had a huge canopy; a good many creatures could huddle there, unseen, their bodies twitching and swaying while their jaws opened and closed.

  Walking as fast as he dared in the darkness, he strode up the sidewalk passing between the inn and a small stand of trees. He imagined he could feel a presence in the woods, and nearly cried out when he heard the sound of something moving among the trees. Whatever it was bounded off and he realized it wasn’t a zombie, but probably a deer, fox or coyote.

  Back in the washhouse, he hastily closed and locked the door before falling back onto his makeshift bed. The building no longer felt claustrophobic. Now it felt like a sanctuary.

  He felt the floor with his hands, seeking one of the washcloths he’d knocked over. He was unsure whether or not he was bleeding, and if so, how badly, but he knew he did not want his bloody skinned knee to draw any zombies.

  He found one of the wash cloths and, pressing it tightly to his knee, limped to the window. Of course he saw nothing except blackness. His eyes were useless. He would have to rely on his ears.

  His sense of hearing had gotten much sharper without the constant white noise of civilization in the background—all the noise people and their machines make—and he could hear things he might not have noticed a year ago. He could hear the low rumble of the Lake Michigan surf in the distance. He heard the breeze rustle the young leaves in the line of maple saplings bordering the gravel drive. He heard a coyote; he heard two owls.

  He heard a rasping.

  He held his breath, afraid to make any noise. It sounded like it was near the Irish Blessing, a few hundred feet away. Kevin stood taller to hear better. Yes, it was definitely near the Irish Blessing.

  He knew by experience they couldn’t see in the dark and didn’t usually move much at night. However, if zombies somehow knew he was here and slowly migrated this way, in the morning it could be a problem. And he had no idea whether there were others nearby. If the dozen or so he had heard were to somehow congregate around the washhouse during the night, it could be disastrous. Damn my reckless impulse to swim to the raft! he chastised himself.

  Had the zombie communicated with the others. He didn’t hear any rasping until the one on the raft started, then the others responded. Was this new behavior, had he simply not noticed before, or was it just coincidence? If it was some kind of communication, and they all knew he was here, they probably planned to have him as the main attraction at a communal meal.

  He reluctantly concluded there was only one option. He had to leave now, while it was too dark for them to see or follow. But where would he go? Back to M-22? That didn’t make sense. He couldn’t detour around the blocked bridge at night without using his lights. If he had just a little more light, he might be able to find a canoe and row it out into the middle of Lake Menekaunee . . . but he didn’t dare use his flashlight and wasn’t sure he’d find a canoe anyway.

  Around the washhouse were 360 degrees of danger. It could come from any direction. The lake was safe, other than the raft, but nowhere on land was safe. Lake Michigan was safe, too. If he were on the beach of Lake Michigan, he’d be much safer. No zombies would be rising out of the water to attack him. A zombie that got into Lake Michigan would fall and flounder in the surf, too slow to ever rise again, and eventually be dismembered by the action of the waves against the sand and rocks. With so few houses along the shore, there wouldn’t likely be many zombies.

  He pulled the washcloth from his knee and gingerly felt his knee. It was sticky, and very sensitive, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding any more.

  Kevin pulled on his jeans, grabbed his cooler and quietly slipped out the door. He crept to the Jeep, but stood outside the driver’s side door trying to decide whether to start the engine and drive to the beach access point, or grab the bike and ride. He caught a whiff of decay in the air and decided it was unwise to ride the bike in the dark, so he climbed inside. Feeling much trepidation, he started the engine. It seemed obscenely loud. He decided to use the foglights instead of the headlights.

  When he turned on the lights, he flinched back. There were three zombies within twenty feet of the Jeep! One was moving his jaw up and down methodically. Two had their arms outstretched, reaching for him. The other had only one arm to reach with. All three showed signs of decay and injury. The nearest one was missing part of his skull and Kevin could see black, de
composed brain tissue dripping down onto his shoulder. He put the transmission in reverse and backed up, knocking one down in the process, then quickly pulled forward, knocking down another. He felt a loathing satisfaction that made him shudder as it crunched and snapped under his tires. He saw several more zombies on the quarter-mile drive to the beach access/dead end. There were more here than he had anticipated. If he’d stayed all night in the washhouse . . . he stopped that train of thought and focused on his situation. If I get to the beach access point and it’s filled with zombies, then what? But his fears were allayed when he rounded the final curve and saw a clear road. Sand and leaves had blown over the road, but it showed no tire tracks, no human footprints, no scraping zombie tracks. In some places the sand had blown into shapes resembling snow drifts. The dunes were reclaiming the land.

  Near a copse of trees the road ended and became a narrow sandy path leading past a huge, ancient oak tree. There was a wooden fence barrier with reflectors and a Beach Access sign. Kevin drove to the very end of the pavement then hopped out of the cab and opened the hatch. He yanked his bike out of the cargo bay, grabbed the backpack, and threw a bottle of water in the side pocket. He locked the Jeep and placed the keys on top of the front tire, hidden in the wheel well. He pedaled off, heading up the slight slope of the beach access path. He was glad he was on a hybrid bike—a street bike would probably have sunk in the sand. This bike could navigate on pavement or comfortably in sand as well. The sand, undisturbed for many months, was packed down and easy to ride upon. The moon was on the rise, offering Kevin precious little light to steer by, but he didn’t need much light for this part of the trip. He could hear the sound of the Lake Michigan surf and crested the small dune.