Dead: Snapshot 01: Portland, Oregon Read online

  Other Titles by TW Brown

  The DEAD Series:

  DEAD: The Ugly Beginning

  DEAD: Revelations

  DEAD: Fortunes & Failures

  DEAD: Winter

  DEAD: Siege & Survival

  DEAD: Confrontation

  DEAD: Reborn

  DEAD: Darkness Before Dawn

  DEAD: Spring

  DEAD: The Reclamation

  DEAD Special Edition

  DEAD: Perspectives Story (Vols. 1 & 2)

  DEAD: Vignettes (Vols. 1 & 2)

  DEAD: The Geeks (Vols. 1 & 2)

  Zomblog

  Zomblog

  Zomblog II

  Zomblog: The Final Entry

  Zomblog: Snoe

  Zomblog: Snoe’s War

  Zomblog: Snoe’s Journey

  Miscellaneous

  Gruesomely Grimm Zombie Tales Vol. I

  That Ghoul Ava: Her First Adventures

  That Ghoul Ava & The Queen of the Zombies

  That Ghoul Ava Kick Some Faerie A**

  Next, on a very special That Ghoul Ava

  Dakota

  The World of the DEAD expands with:

  Snaphot—Leeds, England

  (Coming August of 2015)

  To see your town die in the DEAD world, email TW Brown at: [email protected]

  DEAD: Snapshot – Portland, Oregon

  ©2015 May December Publications LLC

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  The split-tree logo is a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications LLC.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  ISBN - 978-1-940734-37-8

  A moment with the author…

  Behind the curtain of the DEAD: Snapshot {your town here} series.

  “THE DEAD WALK!”

  You sort of dream about that headline. Admit it. You watch shows like The Walking Dead and think, That would be SO cool! Would it really? I want you to bring your own arm up to your mouth and bite as hard as you can. Now keep going until you rip the flesh. (In the interest of our “sue happy” culture, I am not really suggesting that you do this, and if you already did then can I ask what in the hell is wrong with you?)

  So…how cool is it now? And then there is the idea of finding a loved one who had the misfortune of not heeding the warnings and got bit trying to hurry home to take care of you. They are coming at you with filmed over, dead eyes. So grab a gun or something and shoot or bash them in the head. Oh yeah, that includes your precious little Jimmy or Janie. You know, that apple of your eye…the one thing that you love more than life itself.

  Not sounding so great anymore, is it?

  The reality of the zombie apocalypse is probably more terrifying than we want to imagine. However, reading about it is a blast. On that, I think many of us can agree. Only, when you read these stories, don’t they always seem so far away and remote? Unless you have a local zombie author who loves to set his novels in his or her (and by extension…YOUR) neck of the woods, you have to imagine places you have never been and hope to sink into the story enough to feel like you are “there.”

  Well, wait no more. With my new spin off of my successful and best-selling zombie series DEAD, the apocalypse can be right outside your own front door. How? I will tell you later. You don’t think I am gonna give you ALL the good stuff right off the bat, now do ya?

  My new series is titled DEAD: Snapshot—{insert town here}. Okay that last little bit is just the generic filler. To be clear, the first book is titled DEAD: Snapshot—Portland, Oregon. I set it in my town because it is someplace that I know pretty well. However, the next book is titled DEAD: Snapshot—Leeds, England. Never been there, but with the help of Google, I can get down to street level and “walk” about from the comfort of my computer.

  Each of these books will be a stand-alone novel set in the mythology that I built in the DEAD series. Some of them may see “guest appearances” by characters that you know and love or hate from DEAD. You don’t have to be a reader of the series to enjoy or understand the book. It is zombie fiction, not Twin Peaks. For those totally unfamiliar, my zombies are like those found in Romero flicks. Still confused? (I weep for you, but I will clarify.) The Walking Dead. You know, basically slow and not all that coordinated. I do have a few twists in my mythology that differs from the norm. While I won’t state it as a fact, I had not read (in my VERY EXTENSIVE reading) any instances where the bite was not a catalyst for somebody to turn. Also, children of the younger age bracket might behave just a bit differently. I don’t want to spoil anything, so I will leave it at that and let you discover for yourself why my series has allowed me to be a writer full-time and quit my day job.

  So, how do you get zombies to come wipe out your town (or maybe the town of an ex, or somebody that you just really don’t like), so to speak? Simple. All you have to do is send me an email at [email protected] with “I WANT TO SEE THE DEAD TAKE MY TOWN!” in the subject line. From there, in the actual email, tell me where you are from. Tell me a little bit about your town and what makes it special. Feel free to offer your own name up for use as a character. You are even free to give me a description or photo that I can use to design this character. I even let you specify if you wish to be hero or villain. Sorry, no promises that you will survive in any case, and your character’s depiction may be NOTHING like you in manner and action. It will simply carry your name into the annals of zombie apocalypse history.

  So…are you interested?

  Curious?

  Or maybe you really dislike those snobs over in Shelbyville? (Simpson’s reference, sorry.) Well, you now have the power of life, death, and undeath in your hands. What will you do?

  I have the usual suspects to thank. My beta readers (Jeff Shoemaker, Michelle Warren, Nelson Wilbanks, Ramona Martine, Tammy Gaylord Beard, and Tracey Lynn, Caroline Harmon). Seriously, you make this a better book with your keen eyes and helpful suggestions. I want to thank the people that keep us safe: the men and women of the armed forces, as well as the public servants in the medical, police, and fire departments. Without them, we would be in serious trouble. I would be remiss if I did not thank you, the person reading this book. Without you, I would not be doing what I love for a living. Thank you so much for being a part of making my dreams come true. Also, I have to thank Erin West and the staff and players of the 2015 Portland Thunder Arena Football League team.

  Last, but certainly not least, I have to thank my wife. You have never wavered in your belief. You push me to do things that I would not do on my own. This book is being handed out at the Portland Thunder home games for the 2015 season because you believed and told me that this was a good idea. Talk about shoving a guy out of his comfort zone.

  Keep Portland Weird!

  TW Brown

  February 2015

  To Ruth Rolle

  You are an inspiration

  Contents

  It Begins: Ken Simpson

  It Begins: Rose Tinnes

  It Begins: Jason Edwards

  Discoveries

  Beginning of the End

  Bad People

  “What about Hank?”

  The First Night of the E
nd of the World

  Into the Breach

  “Yes. This is really happening.”

  A Terrible Thing

  Discoveries

  Tough Choices

  Door-to-Door Shopping

  Rag and Bone

  Normal?

  Winter

  “And so it goes…”

  Sneek Peak at That Ghoul Ava and The Queen of the Zombies

  It Begins: Ken Simpson

  “…as reports continue to come in, we will do our best to keep you informed,” the pretty, blond talking head on the television said.

  Ken Simpson was not fooled in the slightest. He opened his hall closet and pulled the long, black case out from behind his array of coats, jackets, hoodies, and windbreakers.

  He glanced to the left at the mirror that was mounted on the back of his bedroom door. His wife had insisted on that damn thing. She would get ready for work in the bathroom and then come out and give herself a full once-over before kissing him and heading out the door every morning for twenty-odd years.

  After her death following a lengthy and horrible battle with cancer, he had simply not possessed the heart to take the damn thing down. Looking at his reflection, he saw an old man that he barely recognized. His once clean-shaven head now showed a halo of short gray hair that looked more like a wreath than anything else. His week of stubble was adding to the disheveled look that he sported more often than not these days. After he had been forced to retire due to a leg injury suffered while he had been chasing a shoplifter of all things, Ken had simply let himself go.

  Standing up straight, he initially sucked in his gut, but then remembered there was nobody around to impress. He let it go and winced as it extended well over his belt. The only feature he still had anything to be proud of was his chest. He had been a big man all his life, and his massive chest made him an imposing figure back in his prime. It was still broad, but he knew that it would not be long before gravity and laziness turned his pecs into man boobs.

  For only being forty-nine years old, he looked every bit a man in his early sixties. The last year had been hell. With Milly passing, he had simply stopped caring about anything; and that included himself. With no children and, subsequently, no grandchildren, Ken really had nothing to motivate him to shower if not for the face the clerk would make as he stood at the register. He would climb into his car after buying groceries (more for the replenishing of his beer supply than for actual food) and give himself a sniff test. Usually that would remind him that it had been a while since his last encounter with soap and water.

  The one thing that he did take care of was the house. That had been Milly’s pride and joy. For some reason, he could not allow the house to fall into the same degree of disrepair that he had plummeted. The television continued to drone, but he only heard snippets as he shut the closet door with his foot.

  “…attacks in increasing numbers…reports of individuals biting their victims…hospitals overrun with people suffering from attacks…”

  Walking into his living room, he set the case on the coffee table and opened it. As he did so, he glanced out the enormous picture frame window that provided a view of the street. It was maybe two hours before it would begin getting dark, and there were no signs of kids playing or joggers pounding the sidewalk. He was about to return his attention to the black case when something caught his eye. It was the Calloway dog.

  Brandy or Bailey or some other alcohol related name. He never cared enough to remember, and that was a good thing. If Ken Simpson knew the name of a dog in the neighborhood, chances are it usually ended up with a pellet in the ass. As far as he knew, this dog had never used his yard as its personal toilet. Of course, that spoke more of the owner, Ken knew that. But, since he would probably have ended up in jail a long time ago if he’d been shooting the dogs’ owners instead of the dogs—

  The dog stopped suddenly and craned its head back over its shoulder. The animal bared its teeth, growling loud enough to be heard in the house. Its eyes were wide enough that he could see the whites. He was not much of a dog person, but he knew fear on an animal when he saw it.

  Ken moved to the door and opened it. The Golden Retriever paused and turned his direction. Its collar and leash were still on, but the chunky, balding man who he always saw at the other end of that bright pink leash was nowhere to be found. He thought the man’s named might be Calloway. Maybe it was Carson. Hell, that was something Milly knew, he didn’t really have a clue.

  A low moan made Ken look down the street in the same direction the dog was looking. What he saw actually made his knees buckle just a little. The owner of the Golden Retriever was headed this way.

  As a retired police officer, Ken had seen some nasty things. Car accidents were always a good place to get a rookie’s feet wet. Literally. The human body was simply not designed to withstand the amount of force that a head-on collision dealt. It was even worse when the person or persons were not wearing seatbelts.

  In his younger days, he had been one of those sorts who disdained the use of his seatbelt; at least he had been until he had arrived on the scene of his first accident where the driver and passenger of the compact car had made that same choice. The massive diesel pickup truck that had slammed into them probably would have killed them in any case. But both bodies had been launched through the windshield.

  The woman’s head had been almost snapped off from the force of being bent backwards so hard. He had been okay until he reached where the driver had been thrown partway through the windshield. The steering wheel had crushed his chest and the rib bones had punched through where they had been snapped and turned into jagged daggers. Something had been lacerated and fresh shit mixed with the blood leaked from his body in several places. Ken Simpson, rookie police officer, had fallen to his hands and knees and vomited like never before in his life.

  That did not hold a candle to this.

  The man walking down the street had been torn open. There were things hanging from his belly that definitely should not. Long, ropy strands of what Ken knew had to be intestines dangled and slapped against the man’s thighs.

  It was obvious that the attack on this man had been sudden and violent. A dark stain ran down the inside of the legs of his khaki pants. Of course, Ken had been to enough scenes where somebody had died. He knew full well that it was common for the deceased to release bowel and bladder upon dying.

  The portly man was walking with slow, unsteady steps; almost as if he might be drunk. This would match up with everything that had been on the news the past few days.

  It was global and nobody seemed to know how it had started. If you watched one news channel, there was talk of some sort of chemical weapon. On another, it was a depleted ozone layer and some recent solar flare activity. The religious channels were predictable in their “End of Day” fervor. And then there were the tabloids. Everything from aliens to the Chinese government and some sort of secret weapons test that had gone wrong were getting top billing these past few days when it had finally gotten too big to contain or hide.

  Last night, Ken had stopped in to see his old buddy Red. Red Gibson ran a gun shop and shooting range a few miles away. It was where all the local law enforcement types did their target practice. He had picked up another ten thousand rounds for his Glocks and another five thousand for his .30-06.

  Already there were reports of sporadic looting and rioting. The government was being mum so far. The last thing that he had heard from the White House was the president telling people to remain calm. Did he actually think that was going to do any good?

  Local media coverage was not much better, and he had word from a few of his friends still on the force that a military vehicle was spotted in the parking lots of all the major news studios. That most likely meant that the people of the Portland metro area were being fed a diet of government-approved false information.

  The barking and growling of the dog at the end of his walkway snapped Ken back to the situation at hand. Oddly
enough, the dog’s owner had not made all that much progress. His gait was not only awkward, but exceptionally slow. He did not see how these things could even be considered much of a threat like he was hearing.

  If people were being attacked and bitten by these people who were supposedly infected with whatever the hell was causing this behavior, they had to be either very slow, or very stupid. He had just cracked a slight smile when his neighbor, Gina Glendon, exploded out onto her well-lit porch, the screen door slamming into the twisted black metal that acted as rail and bannister for her tiny stoop.

  Gina Glendon was the typical looking soccer-mom. The slight bulge of her belly indicated that she would finally be embarking on that journey of actual motherhood in a few months. Her hair was a chestnut brown and cut stylishly to fall just past her collar. Her skin was unusually pale. Unusual for her since she was a regular at the local tanning salon during Oregon’s rainy winter season. With spring just around the corner, she usually had a bronze glow obtained at the fake-and-bake. Obviously she had forgone that luxury due to her pregnancy.

  Gina was a pretty woman, but she had a voice that could peel paint and shatter glass. What was all the worse was the fact that she did not have to yell for her voice to be annoying. Even her conversational voice was nerve jangling. When she screamed, it often could be heard up and down the block during normal circumstances.

  Ken’s head was not the only one to turn as the woman let go with a horrible shriek. The owner of the dog turned and reoriented on the woman who was on her butt and scooting backwards away from the open front door. A man stepped out onto the porch and let loose with a moan that was nearly identical to the one he had heard from the owner of the Golden Retriever just a moment ago.