Swarm (Dead Ends) Read online

  ISBN: 9781483523361

  Author’s Note

  Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. I think Swarm falls into this category. I’m an 80’s nerd at heart and Swarm is a lot like the beloved video games of my youth: short on plot, long on action. That’s not to say that there isn’t a plot but what I’ve tried to do with the first book in the series is introduce Sam Woods and let you, the reader, see what he’s made of. I want Sam to be defined by his thoughts and actions because those things will shape all of the books that follow. There’s no quicker way to get to know someone than to see how they respond when things get dicey. After all, in the beginning I didn’t need to know why a chubby plumber needed “magic” mushrooms to make him stronger. I just wanted to smash Goombas until my eyes bled and search for warp pipes until my thumbs went numb. Nor did I care why a blue hedgehog was in such a damn hurry. I just wanted to take the ride with him. Maybe see what he was capable of. I wasn’t interested in the motivation of Bill “Mad Dog” Rizer and Lance “Scorpion” Bean (although we all knew they were really Schwarzenegger and Stallone right?) as they blazed a trail through some random and completely awesome South American jungle filled with unstable Vietnam vets and grumpy aliens. I just wanted to “Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A” their asses to certain victory.

  My taste in zombie fiction is quite similar. With one exception: I don’t like heroes. Guys that know the load out for every major firearm and spend much too much time talking about said load out in near pornographic detail. Ninja assassins that katana every zombie in sight but brood about their killing prowess when the action slows down. It’s just not my thing. I like regular dudes with flaws who stumble and make horrid decisions at every turn, all the while learning that they’re a lot stronger than they thought they were. And don’t get me started on the “merry band of survivors” scenario where everyone forms a close-knit community in a matter of days. I like action, death, dark humor, and enough undead high jinks to keep me reading into the wee hours of the night. I’ll take Shaun of the Dead over Dawn of the Dead any day of the week. Same goes for Thomas S. Roche’s Panama Laugh over Max Brooks’ World War Z. I was raised on Die Hard and Lethal Weapon after all so I suppose my mind learned to equate violence with humor at a frighteningly early age. Disturbing? Maybe. I don’t claim to be of sound mind but I truly believe that suffering in the absence of humor is simply insufferable.

  Buckle up. Let’s go kill some zombies.

  To Lindsey. Your love saved my life.

  But don’t go getting a big head about it. Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.

  “Human beings are the only creatures on Earth that claim a God, and the only living thing that behaves like it hasn’t got one.”

  - Hunter S. Thompson

  “Cocaine is a Hell of a drug.”

  - Rick James

  Chapter 1

  The open road. It was the one thing I could always rely on to help me get my thoughts in order. Each rest stop I passed and every Indian Casino billboard I scoffed at was a sign that right now, if just for today, my problems were all behind me. And for as long as I could manage to keep driving they’d stay that way. An uninformed person would refer to this as running away from one’s problems but I prefer to see it as the only option available to me for preserving what little sanity I have left – the rest of which left in an instant when Melissa the Whore (not her Christian name) cheated on me and had the gall to blame me for her sudden – as far as I knew anyway – promiscuity.

  Unsurprisingly my trust “issues” as she often referred to them, were a manifestation of actual distrust. At least I could say my first instinct about her (and all redheads for that matter) was right: With Heaven and Hell locked into a centuries-long Cold War, Gingers are clearly the devil’s secret agents, sent from the Underworld to balance the scales of love and hate. Their sole mission, aside from standing out in a crowd, is to knock others down a peg or two so they don’t start thinking that their life is blessed by some higher power. It’s partly my fault though. The license plate holder on her Jetta convertible that read “Blondes Tease, Redheads Please” was a warning sign I chose to ignore at my own peril.

  The master manipulator that she is, I’m sure she’s telling our friends some sad story about how I forced her to bed some relatively handsome stranger while I watched from the shadows, cackling maniacally as my master plan had finally been realized. By the time I get back, it’ll be time for a good scrubbing of my phone’s contacts menu, making sure to delete all of the names that I’m certain Melissa has already brought over to the Dark Side. Fuckin’ bitch.

  But all of that nonsense could wait for another day… or year for that matter. Right now I was attempting to enjoy a peaceful drive on a picturesque Pacific Northwest day: cool and sunny but not too sunny so as to give the residents a big head. There were always a few grey clouds around to inspire modesty and appreciation for what little sun Mother Nature blessed us with. Without that, we’d be no better than Florida or California and that’s just not something we could stomach. I’d keep going until I could smell the pungent pines of the Evergreen National Forest and the briny air of the Pacific Ocean. In Ocean Shores, problems always had a way of lessening their impact on one’s psyche. The rhythmic and never-ending hum of the ocean could always be relied upon to purge from your head any notions of self-doubt and negativity that may have laid down roots while you weren’t looking. But if by chance some of those cursed feelings still remained, the Irish Pub on the edge of town could remedy the situation quite nicely if just for a night. Sipping Tullamore Dew and slamming back pints of Guinness like you’re trying to prove a point will always do the job. The dimly lit dark walnut interior and intuitive bartenders who knew when to pour and when to get lost made it that much easier to drown your sorrows away for as long as your body, or your wallet, could stand.

  I was certain my feet would be touching sand in two hours or less if I could just manage to keep my shit together on this lonely stretch of highway near the state capital. I hadn’t realized until now, almost an hour into the trip, that the radio dial was planted firmly in the off position and I had been babbling and sobbing like a school girl, trying my hardest to telepathically send messages of hatred and disgust into Melissa’s brain for some time. The weed had worn off and the muscle relaxers weren’t kicking in like I expected (generics are always a crap-shoot) which meant I was in serious danger of becoming totally lucid for the first time since I woke up. Panic started to set in as I began to think of how horrible it would be to actually feel anything at this particular moment. I had been comfortably numb for days and I wasn’t quite ready for reality to punch me in the gut while travelling 75 miles per hour in a 1993 Ford Taurus that sported a safety rating of “n/a”. It was time to pull over and give the doctor his medicine. I knew at some point that my strict regimen of uppers and downers would lose its effectiveness when it came to keeping reality at bay but right now I didn’t care. I just wanted to hear the waves crashing against the jetty while I still had half a mind. What happened after that I would deal with as best as could be expected given the circumstances.

  The only exit that seemed to lead anywhere was a new one, carved into what used to be a pristine bit of forest that led to one of those gaudy sportsman’s warehouses where you could get 25 different kinds of camouflage and 50 varieties of questionably sourced meat jerky but if you asked for a tennis racket or golf clubs, they’d kindly tell you to go back from whence you came (though they clearly wouldn’t be caught dead using the word “whence”). It was essentially Costco for the Natural Ice swilling hick crowd that liked to shoot things and vote Republican without ever having heard the candidates’ names. They weren’t quite rednecks – this wasn’t the South after al
l – but as a result of country music and reality TV, they sure wanted to be; even going so far as to adopt some form of hybrid Southern accent that sounded like they were having a series of minor strokes – adding a little twang to the end of words that have no business ever being twangified. At least rednecks had an excuse – they were born that way. The country boys up here were just poseurs struggling to create an identity for themselves beyond “Lifelong Welfare Recipient.” Fun fact: I hear they have at least 38 different words for “beer” (one of which is breakfast) but not a single word for “gainful employment.”

  The exit seemed to wind pointlessly back and forth like a river trying to find the path of least resistance. This drunkard’s nightmare of a road easily added a half mile to the trip which was all the more puzzling when you consider that the store and its comically large parking lot were literally a stone’s throw from the freeway. Apparently a straight shot was deemed too dangerous given the clientele that would be populating the place. I found a spot in the back, roughly 75 yards away from the nearest car. I was out of rolling papers which meant my trusty bong was going to have to come out of its custom designed hiding place in a secret compartment I had made underneath the front passenger seat. Being the tenured stoner that I am, my car was filled with little gadgets that did a damn fine job at making it look like a normal car but allowed me to continue with the lifestyle to which I was accustomed. Coca-Cola cans with false bottoms for an emergency stash, nose-spray bottles filled with a THC tincture, and a few windproof mini-torch lighters stuffed inside the headrest padding in case of emergencies were just a few of my dirty little tricks. And as far as appearances went, Mexican drug cartels would be proud of the work I’ve done:

  Non-descript and borderline shitty car that is kept clean but not too clean?

  Fake AAA sticker that made it look like I was a responsible motorist?

  Rear bumper devoid of shiny marijuana leaves or peace sign bumper stickers?

  Respectable haircut with sideburns and bangs nowhere to be found?

  All internal and external lights in proper working order?

  You’d see no patchouli air fresheners, Phish t-shirts, or 311 CDs anywhere. Those were products of the ignorant newbie stoner who almost seemed to crave that designation as a marijuana lover in order to define who he was as a person; perhaps fearing there would be no other aspects of his personality worth remembering.

  My bong wasn’t exactly discreet but it was all I had – I didn’t carry a pipe with me because cops tend to be a little more aggressive when they think you’re a meth-head or a crack fiend. If they’re certain you won’t remember it in the morning, they won’t hesitate to knock you around a bit before they hastily shoehorn you into the backseat. Perks of the job, I suppose. But one furtive glimpse of that purple bong would confirm that I’m no threat. They’d generally let me off with a warning or give me a ticket for something I didn’t do just so they could punish me without having to waste the time to bring me in, knowing full well I’d sleep comfortably through the night until they let me go the next day. It was an acceptable trade-off as far as I was concerned.

  It’s sad really, that it had come to this. Sitting in a parking lot of a store I would never be caught dead in, doing drugs by myself and contemplating joining some sort of support group for lovelorn twenty-somethings: “Hi my name is Sam and I’m a pussy ass bitch who keeps looking for love in all the wrong places. My grandfather fought in Korea and I listen to Emo and eat gelato when I’m sad because I’m too good for ice cream.” If you could somehow combine the words demoralizing, gut-wrenching, pants-wetting, and go cry in a corner self-loathing into a single word, well… that would be me.

  With tears beginning to well up in my eyes, it was past time to kill a few more brain cells and hopefully push all of those painful memories to the unmapped recesses of my mind for a few more hours. With a bit of luck they’d get lost back there and never come back to haunt me again. I was almost too busy feeling sorry for myself to notice the unearthly calm that had set in around me. A huge parking lot filled with vehicles of all shapes and sizes but not a person in sight. The normal sounds of life – wind creeping through the landscape bringing with it smells of pine and exhaust fumes and maybe even perfectly crispy French fries; flocks of birds in a constant ebb and flow beyond the canopy of trees; the hum of cars pounding the pavement; the indefinable energy of a society always on the move – they were only noticeable at this moment due to their complete absence.

  As I reached down to fetch the lighter I had dropped at my feet, I heard what sounded like a demolition derby getting closer by the second. The gradually increasing sound and reverberation of tires screeching and metal twisting and writhing as it tried its hardest to resist the forces of gravity and friction was almost paralyzing. The feeling reminded me of experiencing my first earthquake as a child and being able to do nothing but wait until it had ended, all the grade school training I had received about getting into a door jam or under a table seemingly forgotten in a moment of sheer terror. In an instant, what was once only a sound now became the most frightening visual I had ever seen and if I somehow survived it, the memory would no doubt be permanently deleted from my brain as a protective measure against complete and irreversible insanity.

  Chapter 2

  In a blatant disregard for the laws of physics, the 18-wheeler hurtled end-over-end towards my burgundy red bulls-eye of a car seemingly gaining momentum as it approached. Though the odds of this happening were slim to none, I still count it as yet another argument against having huge mega-store parking lots within pissing distance of a major interstate highway carrying all manner of sleep deprived truckers, pill popping soccer moms, and distracted teen drivers barreling along as if a tidal wave were gaining ground in their rear-view mirrors.

  It was close enough now that I could make out the familiar black, red, and white Sea-Land logo on the sleeper cab. At least I knew who to send the subpoena to if I somehow survived this. I thought of many things I could do – get the car going and move out of the way hoping I would avoid the crash or at least put myself in a better position to absorb its full impact; get out of the car and get low to the ground; pray to God to save me despite my long list of personal failures; or my personal favorite, crap myself and curl up into a little ball. I of course did none of these things. I simply sat there. Horrified to be certain but also relieved that my mind was focusing on something other than lost love. It’s amazing how many thoughts the human brain can have in a matter of seconds. I didn’t have a “life flashing before my eyes” stream of consciousness as many people seem to report in these situations. Maybe the buildup of bong resin in my brain had messed with its internal circuitry but all I could think was that if this were a summer blockbuster, the daisy chain of destruction heading my way would inevitably hit an impeccably shiny new Honda minivan, the camera uncomfortably focusing on its silver “H” logo for what seems like an eternity, which would catapult the semi into the air, narrowly missing my sports car of which I have no business owning but absolutely destroying pretty much everything else in sight. Throw in a 20-something tit-stick with questionable acting ability and Michael Bay’s name would be plastered all over the movie posters.

  Sadly for me this was not a movie. The last thing I remember was that damn Sea-Land logo, its wavy red “S” taunting me in what seemed like slow motion as Operation Rolling Thunder prepared to turn me into a blood puddle. The tunnel vision I had experienced upon first seeing the source of my demise was now slowly fading to black. My extremities devoid of feeling and my lungs audibly preparing to take one last breath before the words “game over” flashed on the imaginary screen in front of me. My last thought was more like a disturbing narration of what was going on in my brain than an actual lucid thought: “Another life lived half-assed and unfulfilled. He tallied up his regrets and compared them to his accomplishments and realized it wasn’t even a fair fight. Just another speck of dust in a world that will keep on turning just fine without
him.” At least I got to know what I really thought of myself before I died.

  When I came to, it was noticeably brighter in the car than I remember it being before Jim Bob decided to pop one too many Greenies and play Carmageddon with the lesser vehicles on the road; most likely in hopes of securing that “on time” bonus that would keep his world going for another few weeks. I’d ended up sitting upside down in the rear passenger-side seat with my long legs pointing straight up at what should’ve been the roof. But the semi had managed to peel it back like a can of sardines which left me looking at nothing but cloudy skies. I’d always wanted a convertible but this left me thinking of those old cartoons where a genie grants three wishes to someone who is regrettably unspecific about what exactly it is that they desire.

  My brain slowly began to reboot itself, the haze of confusion quickly giving way to a searing, burning pain radiating from my left shoulder. With my vision still cloudy, it looked to me like my shoulder had fused with the door and become one. Skin, bone, shitty red felt, and cracked pleather all coming together to form something that was in no danger of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. Judging from the position of my body relative to my shoulder, I’d say at the very least I had dislocated it. The throbbing pain confirmed that much. With the worst of it over, I decided to sit still for a while to get my bearings and hopefully muster up enough courage to pry my mangled shoulder from the door. I glanced underneath the front seat upon noticing the familiar holographic foil logo of my credit card; the same credit card I had accused my now ex-girlfriend of stealing and using for a shopping spree at a Joe’s Sporting Goods going out of business sale. I feel like an ass to say the least. If I had died today my tombstone would most certainly have an X-Files bent to it: “He Trusted No One.” Mulder would be proud.