Zomblog 05: Snoe's War Read online

  Zomblog:

  Snoe’s War

  TW Brown

  Zomblog: Snoe’s War

  ©2013 May December Publications

  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.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Dedication

  Greg Carrico, Carol, Wills, J. Thorn, Rhonda Hopkins, The Loving Memory of Doris Hopkins, Selina Maeder, Wanda Beers, Jamal “Morgue” Luckett

  An introduction you should read…

  One of the first things you will notice is a departure from the blog/journal format. With Snoe being captured at the end of book four, it did not seem reasonable for her to have a journal. To that end, I took some liberties that I hope will be acceptable and enjoyable to you…the reader. After all, this series is for you.

  That brings me to what I think is an exciting announcement. The next book in the Zomblog series will be the final one. For many of you, this will be like saying “farewell” to a friend. Because of that, I am opening the door for you to have your voices heard. I will include up to three “fan-fiction” stories at the end of the final installment. If your story is selected, you will be notified by email. I will have to send you a formal contract that allows for your piece to be included. So what am I looking for? Well, many of you have proven over time that you know some of these characters better than I do. To that end, I am inviting you to center a story around anybody from the Zomblog universe. The only rule is that you can’t alter the “reality” of that universe. So…Sam stays dead…you get the picture. Now, I may not hear from anybody. And some of you may be thinking “I’m not a writer.” To that I say “Bollocks!” Just have some fun. You will get a free copy of the book BEFORE it is released to the public (signed if requested). What have you got to lose?

  Additionally, I have included something special at the end. One of the things writers do on occasion is try out “new” things. Believe it or not, I do actually write more than just the zombie stories that I am best known. I got my start writing comedy material for a few morning radio shows “back in the day.” To that end, I am developing a new series that I bill as a horror/comedy. The series is called That Ghoul Ava. It began as a short that became two shorts (which I condensed into one offering that was made available ONLY in ebook form). On April 1, 2013, I released the first full-length Ava novel titled That Ghoul Ava & The Queen of the Zombies. Since I have heard from a few of my very devoted readers that they do not (nor are they likely to ever) use an ereading device due to their love of holding a physical book, I have included the ENTIRE short, That Ghoul Ava: Her First Adventures, as well as an excerpt of the new Ava novel. So, if you are holding a physical copy of this book in your hand, I did this for you. (Plus, honestly, I think this Ava series is gonna be a blast. Let me know what you think.)

  Now that I have that out of the way, I wanted to take a moment of your time. I realize that many will skip this part, but I hope more will read on. I am baring a bit of my soul here and sharing something that I feel is special.

  This book was written during Camp NaNoWriMo in April of 2013. For those not familiar, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writers Month. During that time, the goal is to write 1,667 words per day and complete a 50,000 word novel. (50,000 is considered the official minimum word-count length for a novel according to some sources.)

  In April, I embarked on my annual fundraising effort for The Offices of Letters and Light (the official non-profit that oversees NaNoWriMo). Last year I set a goal of $500 and reached it. This year, I shot for the moon and put forth a loftier goal of $1,000. As I write this intro, I am less than $90 from reaching that goal.

  What I want to share here is the fact that a single individual is responsible for $750 of that total. Now, the donor wishes to remain anonymous and I will respect that wish. However, I also wanted to express my thanks. The folks in the Offices of Letters and Light are calling me on the phone, emailing me, and even having me as a guest on a video conference. But the reality is that I didn’t do anything other than write a few blog posts and set up an account with the folks at StayClassy.org that make the fundraiser page happen.

  I am always amazed each and every day when I sit down to write. I can do what I love because you all read these books. The Zomblog and DEAD series may not rake in the “Big Bucks” when compared to some, but they do well enough to let me do this as my regular job. That is because of people like YOU. And my being the top fundraiser for the good people who bring literacy to young and old in the form of reading and writing programs is also because of YOU. I just want to thank you all for allowing me this wonderful life that I have.

  On to other things...

  Yes, there is one final book in this series yet to come and then I put Zomblog to rest. However, I still have my DEAD series for those of you who have yet to discover it. Also, I have recently released the first full-length novel for my That Ghoul Ava series. I bill it as a horror/comedy. It is my respite from the often dark world that I paint in my post-apocalyptic worlds. You will find an excerpt at the end. I hope it tickles you enough to investigate the actual book.

  As far as this series is concerned…I actually expect to hear from a few people. This has gotten away from zombies and become more about the people trying to rebuild a world that was wiped out. That is a conscious choice on my part. Seriously, this series is not about zombies…never has been. It is about people. Some good…some bad.

  Another challenge is to portray an eighteen-year-old girl with some sense of reality. Sure, I have one roaming about the house, but I don’t understand her any more than I do Quantum Physics. What I hoped to do is make her a product of a world that is void of malls, social media, and all the other distractions. So, if she seems a bit “too smart” or whatever; imagine how she grew up. This is a world very different from our own.

  Unlike books one and four in the series, there will hopefully be a bit of closure here. If you deiced to continue on with the series (and obviously I hope that is the case) and want to see how it all ends, book six will be out (hopefully) in October of 2013 and wrap the story in a nice bow. No spoilers…but I do have one more big event planned for our heroine.

  My thanks to you all and I await/encourage your reviews. Believe it or not, they make a difference. And I am always surprised when some folks make a fuss when I do respond. Seriously, you all are why I do this to begin with…why would I NOT take the time to let you know that I appreciate your reviews (good or bad).

  On with the show!

  TW Brown

  ZOMBLOG:

  Snoe’s War

  Chapter 1: The Escape

  Chapter 2: Monday March 1st

  Chapter 3: Thursday April 1st

  That Ghoul Ava sneak peeks

  That Ghoul Ava: Her First Adventures

  That Ghoul Ava: and the Rogue Vampire

  That Ghoul Ava and The Queen of the Zombies

  The Escape

  What a crazy year! I know that I have a lot of catching up to do. I am sitting in camp with my pencil and a log book that will act as my journal. (The world has been dead for over two decades and one of the first things that people started making is writing material…I credit my father, Samuel Todd for that
because of the success of his book.)

  I wish I could have kept a journal these past months, I just know that I will be forgetting something…or a bunch of somethings. After all, you try writing down everything that happened to you in the past year, see how much you remember.

  Needless to say, that cold morning where I walked into Dominique’s camp and surrendered, there was no way I could keep a journal. I did actually try while I was locked up, but it was discovered by Bruno and confiscated. (Bruno is what I called the monster of a man who was assigned to guard me, I never did learn his real name.)

  When Dominique found out that I was keeping a journal…she got really mad. But that is getting ahead of the story. I guess I should start at the beginning—the day I surrendered was a day that would change my life and that of many of the people I know and love. Some for the better, many for the worse. Even with how things are turning out, I did what I felt had to be done at the time.

  Was it the right choice?

  Some will say yes, others would disagree. Of course they are probably dead and don’t get a vote. The losses that I—that we all—suffered, might not seem worth it when they originally happened. After all, even people who say that they are “willing to sacrifice for the greater good of humanity” don’t often expect that they will end up on the casualty list.

  I think one of the most difficult things about sharing this will be when I have to look at my mistakes on paper. How many of you want a tally sheet of all the things you do wrong staring you in the face for the rest of your life? And since I already know that at least three people will be reading this besides myself, that is three people who get to look at what I have done.

  I guess, before I go much farther, I need to say this one thing up front. This is not going to be an apology. I did some things that I am not proud of, but they were necessary at the time. Or at least I felt that way then. I have always heard that hindsight is twenty-twenty. I never knew what that meant. (And actually, Mama Lindsay had to explain to me about eye exams and how they were graded back in the Old World since we don’t have people who specialize in just a person’s eyes. What a waste!)

  So when last I wrote, I hand given my journal over to Felicia and Bob. Then, I walked down to Warehouse City where Dominique claimed to be holding my mom. I thought it was a bit dramatic for her to paint the message on a flag, but I would soon learn that, if nothing else, Dominique enjoyed the dramatic.

  As I came out of the trees and started towards the gate, you would have believed that a herd of zombies was approaching. All of a sudden, there were people running up to the towers and aiming every weapon at me!

  Two rows of soldiers lined up and one person came out dressed in all black. They marched to the gate and stood there waiting for me to arrive. The closer I got, the more trouble I suddenly found myself in when it came to not busting out laughing.

  One of my problems is that when I get really nervous or angry, I laugh. And I don’t just mean a little giggle. I am talking about tears coming down my face, can’t hardly breathe, unable to speak. By the time I was about twenty feet away, I could not hold it back. I started laughing.

  And that is how I met Dominique DuBois, self-proclaimed President of New America.

  ***

  “Just what do you find so amusing?” the figure dressed in all black that stepped away from the two rows of soldiers who had crossbows cocked and trained on me asked.

  I tried to answer, but every time I opened my mouth, the laughing just seemed to get worse. Finally, I did the only thing that I could; I pointed. That did not go over very well. I could see her face turn an even deeper shade of red. And that is when I took my first really good look at Dominique.

  She had some nasty scarring on her face. Nothing to the extent of Jenifer, but it was gruesome looking none the less. As she got angry, the scar tissue turned a shade of purple. That only made me laugh harder.

  “What is so funny?” Dominique demanded.

  I honestly tried to stop laughing, but as is usually the case, the harder I tried to stop, the worse it got. That only made her angrier. She stormed over to me and got right in my face. I could smell something that reminded me of rotten fruit on her breath.

  I wiped the tears from my eyes and noticed that a few of those crossbows wiggled a little bit when I brought my hand up. More than one of these supposedly trained soldiers were jumpy it would seem. That meant it would not take much from me to end up being killed. Now I was really laughing.

  “Stop!” Dominique snapped. When I didn’t, she slapped me across the face. That only made me even angrier. I really wanted to glare at her and shoot daggers from my eyes, but all I could do was laugh.

  And so that is how I was cuffed and practically dragged through the gates of Warehouse City. As I passed through the gates, I saw them cutting down the bodies of people that they had hung yesterday. I looked for familiar faces and I am embarrassed to say that I was relieved when none of them looked like anybody that I knew. I imagine that is small consolation for those people who lost loved ones at the end of one of Dominique’s nooses.

  I guess that I should say right here that I realize she did not actually march those people up to the gallows, place a rope around their necks or pull the lever that opened the trap door beneath their feet. However, she gave the order. Sure, her soldiers carried out those orders, but make no mistake…the blame rests clearly with one person when it comes down to what would happen over the next days, and weeks, and months.

  I was led inside the building that I knew to be the council chambers for the leaders of Warehouse City. Inside I would discover more of Dominique’s dirty work. As you enter the building, there is a huge arched ceiling and the entry way is enormous, with stairs going up on either end. In the center of the reception area was a cage. Or more specifically, a cage complex.

  The structure is a cube with twenty-seven chambers. The ones in the center have living people in them. The others contain zombies. There is barely enough room to move around inside each individual cage, but the living people have to continue to move so that they are not grabbed. I would imagine that it is unsettling at the very least to have something less than an inch away clawing and moaning and trying its best to get at you. You would have to stay still to actually suffer a bite or scratch.

  I didn’t get a chance to really see who was in that construct, but somebody did call my name. At the time, I had no idea who it was, and so many people in my life are dead now that I can’t even begin to imagine who it might be.

  I was led up the stairs and to the second floor. They shoved me into a little room with no windows and no light source except for the thin crease at the bottom of the door. And that is how they left me.

  I think it was a few days, but it seemed like weeks. The only time I saw anybody was when the door opened and this hulk of a man shoved a plate of whatever they were passing off as food and a cup of water inside. There was a bucket for a toilet which I found for the first time when I kicked it over. But finally, Dominique sent somebody for me.

  I was blindfolded this time and anytime there were stairs, Bruno would throw me over his shoulder like a rag doll and carry me. I have no idea if they just walked around to disorient me, but when the blindfold was removed, I was in another room that contained a table with a chair on each side. I was tied down in one and then Dominique came in and sat in the other.

  This was really the first time that I had seen her close up. She had dark hair and a nasty burn scar that did a number on what would have probably been a pretty face. Only, there was an ugliness to her that dripped off her like poison. And her eyes…they were the eyes of a crazy person. Wild. Scary.

  “So, where is your mother?” she asked.

  “You should know,” I snapped. “You hung a flag telling me to surrender because you have her.”

  That earned me a slap across the face.

  “I am talking about your real mother.”

  “Mama Lindsay is my real mother,” I shot back. A
nother slap.

  This went on for a while. By the time it was over, my face felt hot enough to cook on and I couldn’t breathe through my nose. At some point, she had changed from slaps to punches. My nose was a mess.

  It would never be the same and I have these little bumps that you can feel with your fingers if you rub it. People try to ignore it, or if they get caught staring, they say that it is distinguished. That is just a polite way of saying it is crooked.

  “So…it is true,” Dominique finally said after who knows how long.

  I knew better than to say anything. The first couple of times she asked questions or went on a tirade, I made wisecracks or said something nasty. That sounds really neat in books where the hero or heroine has something to say to the evil villain during an interrogation. And then, as they get beat and smacked around, they just keep it up. Well, in the real world, getting slapped and punched really hurts. After a while I kept my mouth shut except to say “I don’t know” to the same questions over and over. (Which was true because, as far as most of the questions went, I didn’t know the answers.)

  “Meredith Gainey is dead.”

  I’ve know that for years, but for some reason, whether it was having been locked away in that room for however long, or the fact that my face hurt from being slapped and punched, I started to cry.

  “So you are what is left?” Dominique said dismissively. “A sniveling little bitch who was left with a dyke so that mommy could go and see what was out there in the world. Do you ever wonder why? Does it ever bother you that your mother just abandoned you with strangers so that she could run around killing?”

  What could I say to any of those questions? Of course I have wondered. However, I have read what my mother wrote during those years after she left me with Mama Lindsay and Mama Janie. And I can’t imagine having been raised by her. She would have been miserable…and most likely, so would I.