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

  One of the many things they enjoyed was the roping class, designed to show guests how the cowboys prepared their ropes to snag a steer or do their fancy rope tricks for the tourists. Both took to roping so much they practiced quite a bit that week, and were able by the end to throw rope, spin loops, and earn a “good job city slickers” from one of the hands walking by. It was a proud moment for the pair. They were so enamored they bought a couple ropes from the place, intending to keep up the training just for fun.

  However, when they got back to civilization, they got distracted starting a family, and had many children and grandchildren before they even noticed the ropes hanging on their garage wall. They brought the ropes down once more and tried to recall how to spin them, but were only modestly successful at the most basic loop spin. They had a few laughs together thinking of that wonderful vacation, but the ropes were quickly packed away and forgotten once again.

  Thirty feet of her past was coiled innocently on the floor of the garage. What thief would know what the thick rope was for, loop already tied with the famous Honda Knot, especially here in the big city? She used a rake to hook it, so she didn't have to bend down to pick it up. It felt good in her hands, and she savored the memories of its origin and of the last time she'd seen it. She drew strength in the thought her husband was helping her from above. She leaned against the wall of the garage considering how to advance her cause.

  “I'll only have one chance. I'm already pooped,” she said to herself. Below her snow-white hair, sweat was beading profusely.

  She looked around for the one other tool she thought she might need—the long handle of a broom, without the brush attached. Easily done. Definitely going to need that.

  And she was off, slowly making her way to the back porch again. The infernal siren was still blaring, adding anxiety to her already desperate plan. At the halfway point she paused for a rest and considered whether she shouldn't just go out the front gate, down the narrow path between her flat and the neighboring home, and just keep walking until she found help. Forget about Angie for now and just find assistance. Lots of risk either way.

  “Lord give me strength to make the right choice,” she said to anyone listening. Marty seldom prayed for herself, but now she allowed herself to ask for a little help. After a minute's pause she decided her best chance to see this day to the end was to take charge of her own problems, and recapture her home. Even if she didn't live through the night, she wasn't about to spend her final hours on Earth sitting on a deck chair listening to Angie claw away her kitchen window.

  “Please Lord, turn off those trumpets!” It was, for her, a near-scream.

  4

  She closed the distance to the back of her house, the rope heavy across her shoulders, and the broom handle held tightly under the arm not working the cane. She saw herself reflected on the glass of her back window, walking up the path with those accoutrements. She admitted she did not look very intimidating.

  Martinette was a survivor in the truest sense, and she plumbed her memory for strength now. At 99 years of age she was walking happily between a parked car and a local eatery where she'd gone dozens of times before—and promptly tripped over a parking curb. She reached out to catch herself as she fell forward, and unceremoniously broke both arms. After the surgery to mend the breaks and assemble the casts she was shipped off to the nursing home. Later, people who didn't know admitted they assumed she was going to fade away and die after such a calamity. Needless to say she fought hard against the odds and walked out of there six weeks later. That was five years ago—a lifetime to someone celebrating turning each and every calendar page after making it to 100. This was a minor speed bump in comparison!

  So on she went, pulling up to the door and window. She tied off her rope and then took a seat in the same chair she used a few minutes before. She was winded now and her back was fast becoming a major distraction. She almost never used pain meds, but using them now would be justified.

  The plan was simple, as it had to be for a woman of her rapidly declining abilities. She would tap the window with her broom handle to get the attention of Angie who was now banging on the back door, hopefully drawing her over to the window one more time. She hoped it would give her an opportunity to open the screen door, then push open the main door so it stood open wide, and finally re-shut the screen door. From there things would get interesting.

  As with most major events in her life, this one began with a prayer.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  She tried to stand up and realized her back was nearing its limits. With great effort she did manage to stand, but this would likely be her last unassisted “up” of the day.

  “As if I don't have enough problems!” No one heard her over the sirens.

  Standing and wobbling a bit, she quickly righted herself and made for the small segment of brickwork between the door and the rear window. She had the rope looped over her head, the broomstick in her left hand, and the cane in her right. From there her best guess was she could just reach the window with the stick and still be close enough to the door to open it. She considered whether Angie would even hear her banging on the window over the din of the emergency klaxons.

  Trust in the Lord.

  She let go of her cane and stood unassisted as best she could. With all her strength she swung the broom handle with both hands. She had very little arm strength, and her whole body was already taxed to its breaking point—but it did make a satisfying bang on the window glass. Was it enough? No second chance to be had, as the stick flew out of her hands and landed harmlessly in the grass just off the concrete porch. It was now or never.

  She maneuvered herself to open the screen door, and was dismayed to see how far open she needed it just so she could gain enough leverage to open the heavier inside door. It was taking too much time! She gave the door a push and was relieved to see it slowly swing open into the kitchen. Now all she had to do was move out of the screen door's path and close it before Angie returned from her screaming attack on the window. It disturbed Marty deeply to hear such anger and pain, but it also scared her half to death knowing she didn't have anything between her and the inside of the house but a slowly closing and flimsy aluminum screen door.

  It latched shut with a satisfying click, but now she felt the panic rising. There was Angie, flailing to the door soon thereafter.

  Oh heavens!

  Standing there she nearly forgot what she was supposed to be doing, but she regained her wits enough to pull the rope from around her neck and get it into position. She had no idea what to expect of this plan, as she had absolutely no experience breaking screen doors. Would the whole thing collapse outward? Would Angie kick it open? Would Angie accidentally hit the latch to open the door like a normal person? So many variables ran through her head as she stood inches away from danger.

  And then the screen lining ripped near the top where Angie was beating it with her fists. This encouraged her to instinctively lean into the broken screen as if to push through it and try to step out. As Angie's head came out of the screen, Marty pulled a simple rope trick that any of those ranch hands would applaud unabashedly, city slicker or not—she looped the lasso loop over Angie's poking head and pulled it tight. If Angie noticed it she gave no indication—but continued trying to free herself of the door. Marty grabbed her cane and started walking as fast as her orthopedic shoes would carry her, knowing Angie was absolutely going to make it outside. It was all part of her plan.

  The other end of the loop was tied to the only thing of any weight close enough to her back door – her porch swing. It was a freestanding model that could be moved around pretty easily by a couple of people. She'd seen it moved many times over the years, but usually it took a pretty good effort on the part of the movers because it was shaped so awkwardly. By tying off the rope to that swing, she ensured Angie would be encumbered
by the apparatus and if she was really lucky, it would hold her long enough to walk around front and backtrack through the house to shut the rear door again.

  Lots of ifs.

  5

  Marty's plan started out exactly as she intended.

  Angie came screaming and flailing out the door, and there was a remote opportunity for Angie to grab Marty before she was able to clear the distance the rope allowed Angie to run. While Angie stumbled, stood up, and lunged at her—she was silently lifting and pushing her cane, trundling forward to save her life. She managed to get clear of the rope's length but was dismayed to see how easily the swing was shifting under the weight of a plague-driven nurse. Angie was slightly above average in height and weight for a woman of her age, but the sickness seemed to give her some added oomph even as it took away some of her mass.

  It wasn't long and Marty was out through the front gate of the yard, making her way between the two redstone flats. She was very dizzy from the effort, and suddenly had to lean against the house for a full minute while she regained her bearings and settled her vision. She didn't make it very far up the corridor, and she sensed it, despite her groggy condition. Angie meanwhile had been moving angrily in her direction the whole time. She had made it through the gate—Marty had left it open in her haste!—and had managed to drag the swing half the distance from the porch. Marty could hear the swing slide off the concrete into the grass, hoping that would slow her down as she rested.

  The fog lifted just enough, and Marty was able to take one step at a time, constantly leaning against the wall to steady herself. The relentless fury of the sirens was clashing in counterpoint with the angry screams from Angie. Marty was definitely panicking now, in danger of falling over for the last time right there.

  Angie had made more progress down the narrow corridor, with twenty feet of rope behind her linked to the swing. Just as it appeared she was close enough to claw her prey, the porch swing contraption ran up against the gate—and would not fit through. Not even close.

  Martinette was too dizzy to turn around, but she heard the thunk of the chair frame against the fence. She couldn't even manage a little smile at her good luck. She could only focus on her feet below her, and her hand on the wall to her right. One foot. One foot. One hand. Repeat. Her feet seemed to be in molasses.

  “Lord I don't mind if you call me to you today, but please let me make it inside so Liam doesn't go outside again to look for me,” she said softly half to herself, half to her Redeemer.

  With colossal effort she reached the front corner of her house. She leaned to her right to view the front of the house, while also positioning herself to turn her head and see Angie furiously thrashing back the way she'd just come. No time to delay. She turned her head back to the front, and began her final push to the front door, up the small ramp her grandson had built for her so she could avoid the two steps up to her front porch and entryway.

  The ramp was built with sturdy hand railings which provided a solid purchase on the incline, but even so she was seeing stars when she finally had the door handle in her grasp. She was swaying dangerously. The handle was on the left side of the door, and currently was all that was keeping her on her feet. This was it. She pushed the latch—and it was locked! Of course the keys were inside. Angie does most of the door-locking these days...

  Maybe I could sit a spell?

  No!

  Steeling herself for one more task, she grabbed her cane—no, her cane had fallen somewhere in the corridor on the side of the house. She looked down and noticed she was holding her Rosary with her free hand, rather than the cane. Marty was devoutly religious, but depended on that cane too. The only explanation she could summon was that she thought she was going to die back there and made the switch from the worldly cane to the spiritual talisman to prepare to meet her maker. She now assumed her time had not yet come. Back to business—

  “Looks like I'll have to do it the hard way.”

  She propped herself against her door, then dragged herself leftward along a few feet of the brick facade, leaning hard the whole way. Then she was in front of Angie's door. The entry doors for the upstairs and downstairs flats were next to one another. The door handle for the upstairs flat was on the right side of the door. Looking now at her hands, she could see she'd scraped them good and hard the last few minutes. She was really out of it. If Angie's door was unlocked she knew the interior door was open—and she could reach her own flat. If...

  She pushed the latch and pushed the door—and it was also locked!

  Have mercy!

  She considered sitting down and letting the end come. It wasn't suicide—forbidden by her faith—rather an honest end to a hard day.

  Teetering between sitting and standing however, she remembered something through the dizzying haze and stress of the moment. Angie had often complained about her front door sticking when she tried to push it open. Several handymen had been through over the years trying to fix it, but none of them seemed willing to replace the whole door frame. They were confident each time they had loosened it for good. Later it would stick again. Sometimes you had to really push hard on the door and depress the latch at the same time to get it to dislodge. It was no problem for the relatively young Angie, but for her... If Angie's door was unlocked, she would still have to use strength to get in.

  She looked to her right again—no sound was coming from the corridor. Was that good or bad? She tried the latch, giving it a half-spirited second attempt and a little shove. It would not budge. The stars were swimming dreamily in her eyes. She took a moment to lean her head directly against the door and rest.

  She came into focus just in time to look to her right and take in a horrible sight. Standing at the corner of the house was Angie—still with the rope looped around her neck, the end hidden somewhere around the corner. The swing chair could not have fit through the gate; Angie was free of it. The sick nurse reoriented on her quarry and began closing in for the kill.

  Marty had no time for a prayer. It was pure instinct and perseverance driving her at that moment. She knew in her heart that door was unlocked—Angie was a trusting soul unafraid of the outside world, going in and out with great frequency to do her chores. She smashed the latch with both her tiny wrinkled hands while pushing with everything she had against the door itself. It would only work if it was really unlocked. If if if.

  Marty spilled through the door as the sound of rage from Angie quickly grew louder, even eclipsing the incessant sirens still abusing the neighborhood. Only by the grace of God did she manage to hang on to the door handle so the heavy door didn't throw her to the ground as it opened. Now all she had to do was close it again. Physics was on her side. The door was heavy enough that as soon as she pushed it on its way to closing, it also forced back the hands which had reached the door just a few seconds too late to affect its trajectory. Angie was unable to make the sharp right turn at the door jam to put her hand into the diminishing gap. The door slammed, and was quickly double-locked.

  She didn't remember the stumbling walk from the front of her house to the rear. Couldn't remember if Angie stayed in the front or moved to the back, observing her through the side windows. She had no recollection of closing the back door, and pulling the curtains shut on the kitchen window. She didn't know how she reached her bed and fell in fully-clothed, shoes and all. Rosary in hand, she would barely recall the little prayer she said before finally losing consciousness.

  Dear Lord. Please help Liam find his way home safely.

  She fell asleep to the sound of trumpets.

  Chapter 2: The Libary

  “Where's Liam? Where's Liam?” That was the sound of Liam's worst nightmare the past few months. Mom and dad and their incessant, demanding, infuriating repetition of that question. It was almost like they were afraid to let him out of their sight. As if he were still a five-year-old. In a mad stroke of irony, it was the one thing that made staying at his great-grandma Marty's house bearable. She didn't ask stupid q
uestions.

  He ran out of her house this morning as soon as possible, just as he'd done most of the previous three weeks, to find refuge among his own kind online and do important things like slaying the undead and e-chatting with his friends back in civilization. His home away from home away from home was the public library.

  “I'm going to the libary Grandma. See ya tonight!” He reveled in mispronouncing the word library, though his reasoning wasn't to antagonize his sweet old great-grandmother. He butchered it on purpose because his dad said it was a special broken word that was “more obnoxious than bloody fingernails on a chalkboard.”

  Shouldn't tell me your weakness dad!

  Liam knew his father's second most-hated word was nu-cue-lar power—but it was harder to fit into everyday conversation. So, as a sarcastic homage to his father, he continued the tradition. Today Grandma only answered him with an affirmative grunt as he walked out the door to relative freedom.

  Though it broke the unwritten teenage rule of time management—awake all night and sleep all day, like Vampires—today he reached the library just as it opened at eight o’ clock. He wasn't interested in small talk, or chatting up strangers, so he didn't care to know the name of the well-dressed somewhat older woman who unlocked the doors and sat behind the counter every day, but she at least recognized him with a wave. He figured it was the blue jeans and soft-drink-logo shirts he liked to wear.

  “Good morning and welcome back. I didn't expect anyone today.”

  He didn't think to ask her why. He was anxious to avoid any chit-chat and get to the computer area so he could set up shop. He passed by with a hurried wave in her direction.