Plague of the Undead Read online

  Raves for Joe McKinney

  “A rising star on the horror scene!”

  —FearNet.com

  “Joe McKinney’s first zombie novel, Dead City, is one of

  my all-time favorites of the genre. It hits the ground

  running and never lets up. Apocalypse of the Dead proves

  that Joe is far from being a one-hit wonder. This book is

  meatier, juicier, bloodier, and even more compelling . . .

  and it also NEVER LETS UP. From page one to the

  stunning climax this book is a rollercoaster ride of action,

  violence, and zombie horror. McKinney understands the

  genre and relies on its strongest conventions while at the

  same time adding new twists that make this book a

  thoroughly enjoyable read. That’s a defining characteristic

  of Joe’s work: the pace is so relentless that you feel like

  it’s you, and not the character, who is running for his life

  from a horde of flesh-hungry monsters.

  “And, even with that lightning-fast pace, McKinney

  manages to flesh the characters out so that they’re real,

  and infuse the book with compassion and heartbreak

  over this vast, shared catastrophe.

  “This book earns its place in any serious library of

  living-dead fiction.”

  —Jonathan Maberry, New York Times best-selling author of

  The Wolfman

  “Dead City is much more than just another zombie novel.

  It’s got heart and humanity—a merciless, fast-paced, and

  genuinely scary read that will leave you absolutely breathless.

  Highly recommended!”

  —Brian Keene

  “The pace never lets up as McKinney takes us through

  the zombie apocalypse in real time—every second of

  terror is explored in depth as the world goes to hell.”

  —David Wellington, author of Monster Island

  “Dead City is an absolute must-read for zombie lovers,

  but McKinney’s excellent storytelling makes it a great

  read for anyone who loves the thrill of a gruesomely

  delicious page-turner.”

  —Fran Friel, Bram Stoker Award–nominated author of

  Mama’s Boy and Other Dark Tales

  “Dead City is a zombie tour de force—the story

  moves along at breakneck speed and never lets up. Joe

  McKinney knows how to toy with readers’ emotions,

  masterfully capturing the essence of humanity in the

  face of unspeakable horror.”

  —Amy Grech, author of Apple of My Eye and

  Blanket of White

  “Joe McKinney’s Dead City is a tense, thrill-a-page

  nightmare, written with great passion and authority. Surely

  one of the best zombie novels ever set down in blood.”

  —Lisa Morton, two-time Bram Stoker Award–winner

  “Dead City wastes no time jumping straight into mile-

  a-minute thrills and gruesome action. This seminal

  zombie novel culminates in a heart-wrenching finale,

  and I found that as the undead hordes multiplied, so too

  did my respect and admiration for author Joe McKinney.

  If you like your thrillers served with an extra helping

  of intensity, you’re going to love Dead City!”

  —Joel A. Sutherland, Bram Stoker Award–nominated

  author of Frozen Blood

  “Dead City is an action packed, pedal-to-the-metal zombie

  novel that never loses sight of its humanity. McKinney uses

  his background as a homicide detective to bring a level of

  realism to his vision of the apocalypse that is both urgent

  and frightening. A timely nightmare that you will not put

  down. I can’t wait to see where this series leads.”

  —Gregory Lamberson, author of Personal Demons and

  Johnny Gruesome

  “McKinney writes zombies like he’s been gunning

  them down all of his life.”

  —Weston Ochse, Author of Empire of Salt

  “Dead City is a full-throttle page burner that torques up

  the terror and does not let up. You’ll want the shotgun

  seat for this wild ride. Bring a crash helmet.”

  —J. L. Comeau, Countgore.com

  “Welcome to Joe McKinney’s Dead City universe, a

  relentless thrill ride where real characters do bloody

  things on nightmare streets. Break out the popcorn,

  you’re in for a real treat.”

  —Harry Shannon, author of Dead and Gone

  “Dead City is a well-written and compelling first novel.

  A scary, fast-paced ride, full of hair-raising twists and

  turns that keep the reader spellbound. Do yourself

  a favor and snag a copy . . . thank me later.”

  —Gene O’Neill, author of Taste of Tenderloin

  and Deathflash

  “Fast-paced, entertaining . . . five headshots out of five.”

  —D. L. Snell, coauthor of Demon Days

  “A fantastic tale of survival horror that starts with

  a bang and never lets up.”

  —Zombiehub.com

  “McKinney continues to lead the genre of zombie fiction.”

  —Craig DiLouie, author of The Infection

  “Mutated delivers pulse-pounding action with precision,

  intelligence, and most importantly, heart. McKinney proves

  once again that he understands the power of the zombie

  subgenre better than any other writer.”

  —Peter Giglio, author of Anon and co-author

  of The Dark

  PLAGUE of the UNDEAD

  JOE MCKINNEY

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Raves for Joe McKinney

  Title Page

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Epigraph

  part one - KILLING JERRY

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  part two - OUTWARD BOUND

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  part three - TRACTS AND BRIDEMEAT

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  part four - THE WRECK

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  part five - THE EMPTY TOWNS

  44

  45

  46

  Four Tales from the First Days of the Living Dead

  State of the Union

  Jimmy Finder and the Rise of the Templenauts

  Resurrecting Mindy

  Bury My Heart at Marvin Gardens

  Copyright Page

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  In the pages th
at follow you’ll find descriptions of how to modify several readily available weapons, such as the Ruger 10/22. All of the methods discussed herein have been field-tested and actually work as described. However, do not try to duplicate them yourself. Modifying a firearm is something best left to trained and licensed gunsmiths. Doing it yourself could lead to serious injury or death. Also, some of the modifications described in this book constitute a violation of federal and state law, and could get you into some serious hot water with the ATF. Not a good thing, believe me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A lot goes into taking a book from a nascent idea to a finished product in the reader’s hands. The famous writer’s adage of put butt in chair is certainly a major part of that process, if not the most important part. Along the way, though, there are countless encounters, countless accidental readings, conversations, observations, whatever, that eventually shape the final form of a book. The volume you hold in your hand is no different. It is the result of many hours of butt in chair, but also many more accidental moments of inspiration than I can possibly remember or acknowledge here.

  But I’ll try.

  These are just a few of the people who helped me put this book in your hand. Ethan Humble, Steven Grover, Anastacio Hernandez, Steve Almanza, and Genaro Villarreal for minding the store at West Patrol so I could take the time off to write this book. And a special second thank-you to Ethan Humble and Steve Almanza, for sharing their gun expertise. What I got right here I owe to them. What I messed up, well, that’s on me. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the members of Candlelight—David Liss, Robert Jackson Bennett, Hank Schwaeble, and Rhodi Hawk—for their wisdom as story doctors and for the hours of great conversation. I’m also fortunate enough to be a member of Drafthouse, along with my very good friends Sanford Allen, Beckie Ugolini, Thomas McAuley, and Brian Allen, fantastic writers all who shared their time and storytelling skills again and again. I also want to thank my editor at Kensington, Gary Goldstein, for his sage counsel in my hour of need, and my agent, Jim Donovan, for going the extra mile on my behalf. And, most of all, thanks and gratitude and love go out to my wife, Kristina, and our two girls, Elena and Brenna, for putting up with the epic amount of crazy that went into writing this book.

  While walking in the tall grass that has sprung up

  around the city of Troy, Balso Snell came upon the

  famous wooden horse of the Greeks. A poet, he

  remembered Homer’s ancient song and decided to

  find a way in.

  —NATHANAEL WEST,

  The Dream Life of Balso Snell

  part one

  KILLING JERRY

  1

  As Jacob Carlton crossed Main Plaza, his boots crunching on the frozen grass, he was thankful the woman had finally stopped screaming.

  For the last two weeks, ever since her husband’s sentence was handed down, Amanda Grieder had been living in the street outside her husband’s cell, crying for someone to come to their senses and show a little mercy. It was February, and it was cold, and most mornings found her hair and clothes crusted with ice. She’d stopped eating, stopped taking care of herself. She couldn’t be consoled. Her friends tried to get her to go home, even tried to pick her up and carry her home at one point, but she would have none of it. After that, whenever they tried to touch her, she fought them, and then the screaming and wailing would start up again and it would carry through the whole town like a sickness, laying everybody low. There was talk that the law should make her leave, do something with her, for her own good, for everybody’s peace of mind, but so far Sheriff Taylor had held off doing that. Jacob didn’t understand the old man’s reticence, but he knew Sheriff Taylor had his reasons. He always did.

  Jacob braced himself as he turned the corner onto Jackson Avenue, where Amanda had set up her temporary residence. He said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t have to deal with her again today. Every morning he had to pass the little makeshift shelter where she kept watch. He’d try to walk by unobserved, but then she’d see him, and no matter how cold or hungry she was, no matter how shredded her voice was from howling all the day before, she always seemed to have a little extra just for him. She’d get up from the sidewalk and rush at him, screaming that he’d made a mistake, that he was wrong about her husband. As sick as her accusations made him feel, he knew he wasn’t up for enduring that gauntlet today. Not today, not the day of the execution. He just didn’t have it in him.

  But to his surprise—and this shamed him, for he was relieved—she wasn’t there. The blankets and baskets of food well-meaning folks had brought for her were still there, but she was gone.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding and tried to collect himself, but his nerves were a jangled mess. His skin felt hot one moment, cold the next. His stomach was twisting into knots. He had the jitters, like he’d drunk too much coffee on an empty stomach. For two weeks he’d felt this way, and he suspected it was making him sick. Not only heartsick, but actually physically ill.

  But sick as he was, he had to keep moving. If he stopped, he’d lose his nerve. Looking into himself, he knew that. The way things were piling up inside his head, all it would take would be to stop moving. If that happened, he’d likely as not turn tail, run home, and hide his head in the toilet as he vomited away his jitters. If, indeed, that was even possible. So he ducked his head against the cold February wind and shoved his hands into his pockets and slipped into the constabulary office like a villain.

  It was early, and Steve Harrigan was the only one in the office. He was standing over by the filing cabinets, and when he heard the door and saw Jacob standing there he looked genuinely surprised. “Wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” he said.

  Jacob nodded. “Where’s the bike checkout log?”

  Harrigan studied the younger man for a long moment. He closed a metal drawer and it shoved in place with a heavy clank. Harrigan gestured toward the back wall with his chin. “Should be over there on the shelf, behind Harris’s desk.”

  Jacob crossed to the shelf the older deputy had indicated. The bike log was a red, hardbound memo book that was almost as old as Jacob was. There were entries going back as far as his school days, when he was taking his first lessons in the Code he now enforced. He turned to the back and quickly scribbled his name on the next open line.

  “Gonna try to clear your head?” Harrigan said.

  “I was thinking of going for a ride, yeah. I thought I’d go check on the new construction over on the east wall.”

  “Still draining the wetlands, from what I hear.”

  Jacob nodded. “Where’s Taylor? I noticed Amanda’s gone.”

  “He’s with her in his office.”

  “Oh, God, really?”

  “Yeah. They’ve been in there for about an hour now. She finally stopped crying just a bit ago. Poor woman, she’s coming apart at the seams.”

  “Is he gonna let her be in the Square today?”

  “Can’t tell her no. It’s her right under the Code.”

  Jacob could tell the older deputy was sizing him up. Harrigan was a real cop, trained in the old ways, from before the world fell apart. Not like Jacob, who had sort of stumbled into the role of chief deputy, a kid trying to figure it out as he went along.

  Harrigan was an affable, lanky man with pale skin and thin gray hair and liver spots on his face, always quick with a smile. But of course that smile was gone now. He put the file he was holding on his desk, lit a candle, and shook the match out. “We’re almost out of these,” he said, and dropped it into an ashtray. “The ones they make over at the school don’t hardly ever work. We go through ’em so fast.”

  “I’ll tell Frank Hartwell to get some more next time he’s outside the walls.”

  Jacob put the ledger back on the shelf and turned to leave. He was almost to the door when Harrigan called after him. “Hey, Jacob, a moment.”

  Jacob stopped in the doorway, looking back at him over his shoulder. “I’m not much in
the mood for a speech, Steve, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, I bet not. But I know this is tearing you up inside. You wouldn’t be half the man I know you to be if it wasn’t.”

  “I don’t feel like a good man right now, Steve. All I want to do is go stick my head in a hole and hide.”

  “Same thing Arthur went through when he had to do it.”

  “And how did Arthur handle it?”

  “Spent the whole morning throwing up.”

  Jacob nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “Nobody said it was easy.”

  “Easy,” Jacob said, and laughed in disgust.

  “This is the right thing to do, Jacob. I believe that. I believe in the Code. It’s us against the world. We have to trust each other. Any man who steals from his brother breaks that trust. And that man has to die.”

  “That’s the same thing you told me when you were teaching my Code class back in school. You need to get a new line.”

  “It’s not a line, Jacob. It’s what I believe in. It’s what everybody in this town believes in. The Code is hard sometimes, but it’s what keeps us alive. Think on that while you’re riding.”

  The older deputy didn’t cow Jacob, not these days. In his youth, all the First Generation had seemed hard and determined, like iron, but he was thirty-five-years old, and he’d faced most of them in council meetings and in the living rooms of their homes when things went wrong. So Harrigan’s words didn’t rattle him. They only made him tired. He’d heard the same thing every day of his life since the time he was old enough to understand what was being said to him. And he’d always thought he believed it. But now that he was going to have to kill a man he’d known since they were kids, belief came a lot harder.