Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Since the Sirens Read online

  Since the Sirens:

  Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse, Book 1

  Copyright 2015 and Published by E.E. Isherwood

  When the end came, everyone left alive found their own religion.

  The dead, however, became militant atheists.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: CIV

  Chapter 2: The Libary

  Chapter 3: The Long Way

  Chapter 4: Quantum Decisions

  Chapter 5: Angie

  Chapter 6: Coagulation

  Chapter 7: Maple Syrup

  Chapter 8: Victoria

  Chapter 9: Last Rites

  Chapter 10: Touristy Stuff

  Chapter 11: Antibodies

  Chapter 12: Heroes

  Chapter 13: The Hole Nightmares Fall Out Of

  Chapter 14: Intermodal

  Chapter 15: Slow Grind

  Chapter 16: The Tenth Circle

  Chapter 17: Valkyrie

  Chapter 18: Shadow Government

  Acknowledgments

  About E.E. Isherwood

  Other books by E.E. Isherwood

  Connect with E.E. Isherwood

  Chapter 1: CIV

  Martinette Peters was standing in front of her oven, thinking about cooking. While she had done that very thing tens of thousands of times throughout her life, this morning was different. Troublesome.

  Normally, her breakfast was prepared by Angie—the nurse who lived in the flat upstairs. But today she didn't come down at her normal time, and she wouldn't answer repeated inquiries on the intercom or telephone. Marty waited as long as she could to see if she'd show up, but after an hour she decided to try to cook something for herself. What was once second nature now required proper planning.

  Bacon. Eggs. Toast. The same thing Angie had made for her the past two years. Every day. Without fail.

  Standing in the kitchen she came to a sad realization. She studied the cabinets, the pantry, and her cooking dishes. Everything she needed was far above her. Either Angie had intentionally placed everything on shelves out of her reach, or she was growing shorter...

  She walked from the kitchen, holding a bag of bread. That, mercifully, was within her grasp on the counter. The phone rang as she guided herself into her comfy chair. Was it Angie?

  “This is the Metropolitan Police Department, City of St. Louis, with an emergency alert. Violent disturbances have been reported in multiple locations within St. Louis city limits. There is risk of violence or death to any participants or bystanders. If you are hearing this message, we urge immediate evacuation to safer jurisdictions. Follow instructions from city or police officials in your neighborhood. Be alert for additional emergency messages. (pause) This is the Metropolitan...”

  While shifting in her seat, the robocall repeated through the answering machine. She screened everything these days, responding at her leisure, if at all. Despite having many friends and relatives, she seldom had energy for chit-chatting. At 104 years of age she assured herself it was okay to be picky.

  The announcement finally ended with a beep, leaving her to her thoughts.

  As if I'm going to run for the hills!

  She glanced at the two-wheeled walker in the corner, tennis ball-swathed feet fresh and yellow—she hated using that big device. If she was going to chance an escape, which she certainly was not, she'd use the smaller, quad-footed cane sitting by her side. Though despising that thing too, she grudgingly admitted it helped her get around more effectively than grasping at walls and furniture while patrolling the cozy single-level flat.

  Ignoring the instructions, she resumed cross-stitching under the timeless rhythm of the wall clock. Angie would call sooner or later, and then the day would start properly.

  It wasn't long after the phone alert when she heard a great banging sound from the front of the apartment. To her hearing-amplified ears it sounded like someone had fallen down the stairs leading to the upstairs flat. Over the years she'd heard many things dropped down those stairs, including many by her own grandchildren who just loved playing on them despite her stern admonitions. Over those years she had also come to know the sound of someone tripping up the stairs, or falling down the steep flight. This was a case of the latter.

  “Probably Angie, I sure hope she's OK.”

  Getting up, she patiently grasped her cane, pushing up on the armchair with her free hand. Normally it was Angie, her friend and nurse, who would come down to help her when she had trouble getting out of her chair after being comfortable for too long. They had an intercom system rigged in every room so they could communicate between floors. This time she was able to make the transition from sit to stand unaided.

  She lamented that if someone up front was counting on her to help them quickly, her kyphotic back and sub-five-foot stature would incite panic once they realized how slow she was. Her gait was a slow shuffle at best—foot, foot, cane. It was, however, very steady most of the time. That at least would give the desperately injured some modicum of hope of eventual rescue.

  She hurried—in her own way—to the potential fall victim. At a snail's pace she passed her curio cabinet and shelves of fine China in her dining room, and emerged in her front living room. She steadied herself on a big armchair then pushed off to the last stop; the pair of doors at the very front foyer of her home.

  Perhaps her family was right about needing a smaller place to live, but she wasn't ready to abandon the home she'd shared with her husband of 68 years. No way she was going to be consumed by a dank retirement home. No, her next stop would be Heaven. However, as a compromise with her family, she allowed them to hire Angie as her full-time nurse. She lived in the upstairs flat, and Marty's heart sank at the thought of her assistant lying at the bottom of those steps.

  Lord help us!

  When Marty reached the door she was gratified to hear noises on the other side, though she couldn't explain why her first thought was that Angie would be dead after such a tumble; she could tell Angie had fallen now. Soft moans and scratching at her door indicated this was indeed an emergency. She steeled herself to see the fallen victim. The door opened inward into the Marty's flat so there was no fear of further hurting Angie with the door itself.

  “Oh my, Angie. Are you alright?”

  Angie had fallen down the stairs sure enough, but she had larger problems than a mere fall. Her skin was ashen and her eyes were bloodshot—or bloody, it was hard to tell—and her usual perfectly manicured hair was sitting in greasy knots. Her light-colored nightgown was soaked with sweat, and had many red streaks and blotches from top to bottom. The 60-ish nurse now looked almost skeletal and her emotional state wasn't the expected embarrassment or agony from the fall, but was instead...anger? Her right foot was clearly broken from the fall—it was now pointing in the wrong direction.

  Why isn't she screaming?

  While she scoffed at the warning on the phone, she was aware of the panic sweeping the nation and she was even aware of the mystery Ebola-like sickness which so troubled many of her family members. They were at her flat just last night urging her to come stay with them until it all blew over. She demurred, declaring she felt perfectly safe for the time being. She assured them if things got really bad she'd oblige them on their offer. Secretly she felt it couldn't possibly get bad enough for her to leave. For someone who had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, Vietnam, and the War on Terror, she did not panic or scare easily.

  She wasn't panicking now, but she was hasty about shutting the door.

  “I'm sorry Angie. You aren't looking right. I'll cal
l 911 and get you some help.”

  Before she could get the door fully closed, Angie stuck her arm and shoulder into the void to reach for her, preventing a good seal.

  “My lands!” It was as close as Marty came to cussing.

  2

  A woman of 104 would find it impossible to kick or shove a person lying on the floor hard enough to get them back through an open door. It would be difficult for someone half her age. Recognizing this, Marty released the door and did the only sensible thing she could at that moment—she began walking away.

  Perhaps it was habit, or maybe just a little bit of panic creeping in, but she began walking deeper into her flat rather than step out the front door to the relative safety of her front porch. As she moved for several seconds she realized her mistake and partly turned around to see if she could still slip out the front door—and was disappointed to see Angie slithering into her flat, blocking escape that direction. She had a malicious look to her that Marty had never seen before on her friend's face. And she was struggling to get off the floor.

  “Angie you are hurt badly and aren't yourself. Please wait where you are and I'll call a doctor.”

  Pushing herself, Marty had several moments to consider her options as she moved deeper into her domicile. She knew Angie was probably infected with heaven-knows-what, though it was beyond her reckoning how anyone sick or healthy could lay there with a broken ankle and not make a peep. She understood she was now in mortal danger. Working her cane with her left hand, her free hand was in her pocket holding her Rosary again. At her age Death was never far away, and the Rosary was an important reminder of her faith she always kept close, but this was not how she wanted her story to end. She needed a plan.

  She could easily lock herself in any room of the house—a bathroom would be the best choice for now—but she couldn't help wonder how strong Angie might be. If she could survive a broken ankle and not complain, what if she could survive banging her head on the thin wooden doors? The growling sounds of the sick woman behind her spurred her to continue onward without stopping to consider potential side routes.

  “I'll just be a moment Angie,” she said aloud.

  She walked into the kitchen at the back of the house, looking around frantically for something to help her. Her heart was beating hard at the effort to simply walk at such a brisk pace. She scanned the kitchen table, the oven area, and the open door to the basement—Liam lived down there, but he was gone for the day to the library. She would never be able to get down all those steps. Her eyes finally fell on her impressive collection of kitchen cutlery and she again chuckled to herself at a funny thought.

  Maybe I could fight her with a knife? Ha!

  She knew it would be futile to try to fight. And her painfully slow progress forward brought her near the back door, her only real option left. Going into the backyard was a definite option, but that would put her outside her own house for who-knows-how-long. What about food, water, her pain medications, the telephone? Could she survive until Liam returned? The shuffling noises entering the kitchen made up her mind for her.

  With great aplomb she slid out the solid back door, quickly pulling it shut behind her. The exterior screen door slowly followed suit. Did she hear a bang on the other side? She was now on her back porch. The concrete area was a flat, open space with a small awning overhead providing limited shade for a few chairs and one large freestanding porch swing she kept around mainly for the grandchildren. She liked this flat for a lot of reasons, but a big one now was how few stairs she had to use. The bright-eyed Marty who moved in all those years ago never imagined she'd still be here at 104 with a disdain for steps.

  She hobbled now, her back starting to flare up in pain, to the closed window near the back door so she could get a look back inside at her squatter. She had to put her face up against the glass to see through the glare of the morning sunshine. Her cane with its four small feet waited patiently at her side.

  Angie was right up in the window looking back at her!

  Oh my! Poor Angie.

  Getting a better look at her, Marty could see Angie had to be standing on her broken foot. She was banging herself against the window quite forcefully, the interior screen frame already having become ripped and bent. The only thought she had at that moment was how much pain the poor lady must be suffering with that broken foot.

  Marty moved away from the window to consider what to do next. She quickly ran through a Hail Mary prayer, not for herself but for Angie—clearly the more endangered soul. Next she sat in the sturdy armchair on her back porch. She knew she'd have trouble getting back up, but there was no choice but to take a quick rest. And think.

  She looked around at the wider world. Her backyard was immaculate of course, with crisp cut grass, well-tended flower beds, and a beautiful hedge separating her backyard on both sides from her less tidy neighbors. Her children and grandchildren took turns coming over and caring for her property. She loved the time she got to talk to them about all their problems and just be there for them. She cherished those visits and looked forward to them each week. And they thought they were doing her the favor!

  She saw no neighbors, which wasn't terribly unusual. Most of the kids and many of the young adults would probably be inside on their video games or whatever newfangled technology was out these days. Or they could all be inside suffering like Angie. That thought was left hanging as the grasshoppers played their music for her.

  “Those police called a few hours too late. I let Liam go out today without a care in the world,” she said to herself after a few minutes of reflection. “I need to get back inside so he has a safe place when he returns.”

  She would have to save herself. She was very comfortable with the notion, as it would prevent her from becoming someone else's problem. She hated depending on others for things she could do for herself. Even worse was depending on others for things she HAD done herself, but was physically incapable of doing now.

  I'm starting to feel old. Finally.

  She had no guns or other weapons, and even if she did it was unlikely she could successfully hold a gun and use it. The thought of her lifting a shotgun and heroically reentering the house would have given her a laughing fit on any other day. Today it just made her mad.

  She thought if she were ten years younger she might be able to sneak to the front door, open it, and lure Angie out the front while she walked back in through the back door. Today, just walking to the front would probably give her a heart attack, and running from the angry nurse on the return trip would probably kill her, one way or the other.

  Perhaps there was something in the garage she could use? Could she make it out there and back?

  Do I want to go there?

  3

  She had mild difficulty getting up out of her chair, but the banging on the window did give her extra motivation. Soon she was up and walking down the walkway to the garage. Out of habit she looked at the bird bath and made a mental note to ask Angie to add more water. She quickly caught her mistake.

  At the far end of her small yard was her one-car garage. A small wooden structure she seldom visited these days. It was painted a tidy white, had a sloping black asphalt shingle roof, with a tiny window on the rear wall as well small portals on each of the sides. The walkway led down the center of the yard, but snaked to the right side of the garage as it neared. When she reached the service door she made a horrible realization—the key to the small door was hanging on a wall inside her house! Martinette had never cussed her whole life, it just wasn't her style. Instead of cursing, she prayed.

  Because she was already there, she looked into the garage through the tiny window in the middle of the door, and saw light. The main garage door was already open.

  It meant more walking, as she had to continue down the path, open the small metal gate to the back alley, and then turn left to access the front of the garage. It was then she noticed almost all the garages on her block had their bays open, many with detritus tossed as i
f sneezed out. She and many of her neighbors had been robbed.

  Looking in, the previously pristine space was a tornadic blast of her belongings. Marty hadn't driven in twenty-five years so she didn't even own a car, but Angie's car should have been sitting in front of her—it had been taken. So had anything else of value. The boxes of power tools. A couple of the grandkids' fancy bikes. The Snowblower. It was June for heaven's sake.

  It's only stuff. It isn't important.

  Looking at what was left, she had to find something which would help her get back in her house. What a mess. Trash cans. Old lumber scraps. Bags of soil. All manner of car cleaning products, lawncare accessories, and pre – World War II shovels, spades, and other old tools she was unable to categorize. Her husband never gave up on a good tool.

  At that moment the emergency tornado sirens began to howl. The deep and unmistakable wail of the sirens informed all within earshot something important was happening. It couldn't be weather—it was a clear day. They were supposed to warn of a tornado, but mostly the trumpets sounded only during their monthly readiness tests. Unfortunately for her, one of these siren towers was located just around the corner—reminding her that though she wasn't quite deaf, she could still be made to feel deaf by eardrum-splitting decibels. She wondered how long they would last... Finishing her scan of the garage, her eye came across something that gave her hope.

  A lifetime ago she had her picture taken with her future husband on the back of a tall black horse. She couldn't remember the exact year. Maybe 1927? She would have been sixteen or seventeen. Upon seeing the picture years later her daughter asked when she took up horseback riding. Marty laughed and said she and her beau were just posing on the back of that horse; she was tossed up there for just that one picture. She wasn't a horse person, and hadn't touched one since.

  She allowed herself one unguarded moment to savor that pleasant memory.

  She was fond of cowboy culture however, and she shared that love with her husband—a man who spent many of his retirement years painting scenes from the American West. At some point early in their marriage they spent time at a dude ranch of sorts in Arizona. While they weren't out rustling cattle, they did stay at the ranch, watched the cattle being brought in, and were close enough to all the action to appreciate the lifestyle. It was kind of a lite version of the full dude ranch experience. It was for those who chose to stay under a real roof, have access to real running water, and get up at hours of their choosing.