Zombie Wonderland
By Piper Vaughn
Published by Less Than Three Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Samantha M. Derr
Cover designed by Aisha Akeju
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition December 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Piper Vaughn
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-936202-95-9
Zombie Wonderland
Piper Vaughn
To Sean Norris,
one of the kindest, coolest people I know,
who shares my love of zombies and all things related to horror.
This is for you.
"O
come, all ye zombies
Undead
and voracious
O
come ye, O come ye to the humans
Come
and consume them,
Reborn
the King of Dinner;
O
come, let us devour him,
O
come, let us devour him,
O
come, let us devour him,
Emery
O'Reilly."
-
Xara
X. Xanakas
There should be some kind of law against being alone on Christmas. But there I was again, manning the diner on Christmas Eve for the third year in a row. Alone.
Antonio had begged off an hour before, spouting an excuse about how he'd promised his girlfriend he'd be home before midnight that year. I hadn't seen any point in forcing him to stay. I knew how to make everything on the menu, and it wasn't as if I was expecting a sudden rush of customers. Not on Christmas Eve, and definitely not in the storm that raged beyond the windows.
It was a veritable blizzard. Not the lazy sort of snowfall with big, fluffy flakes that fluttered prettily to the ground. These snowflakes weren't flakes at all, but tiny chips of ice that stung the skin and made people huddle in their jackets against the needlelike barrage. They pattered noisily against the windows and door, obscuring my view of the street, loud enough to be annoying—and a bit terrifying, really, when I considered how bad the storm might be when I finally closed up and walked home.
I'd always hated the fact that our manager, Jeff, wouldn't just let us close early on holidays. I guess I understood his reasoning—we were the only eating establishment within a solid mile, and the train station directly across the street normally provided a steady influx of customers—but on nights like these, I doubted whatever meager profits we might bring in were even enough to cover the overhead cost of staying open. But according to Jeff's rules, as long as the trains ran, we were open. And since the train schedule never wavered, and probably never would outside of some sort of apocalypse, the diner was staffed from six in the morning to midnight every day of the year.
For the fourth time in fifteen minutes, I looked up at the clock. There was still another hour before I could close, and I'd already scrubbed every surface in the diner three times over. A Christmas movie played on the small television in the corner, but I'd turned the volume down to a murmur. I wasn't in the mood to listen to other people's festivity, fake or otherwise. There wouldn't be any kind of celebration waiting for me back in my dingy studio apartment. No warm smiles of welcome or presents under the tree. I'd be just as alone there as I was at the diner, but the thing was I'd spent all day hoping for something different. It was just my luck that for the first time in three months, he hadn't shown up. To say that his absence was disappointing would have been a massive understatement.
It made sense, though. Probably he had a family or even a girlfriend. Maybe he'd gone out of town. It'd been stupid of me, I guess, to hope that the holiday wouldn't change anything. But he'd come in on Thanksgiving, business as usual, and I thought it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine him coming in on Christmas Eve, too.
From the first time he'd walked in all those weeks ago, it was always the same. It'd become a routine of sorts, and I knew he stuck to it even on my days off. He came in with a messenger bag, settled down in the farthest booth from the door, placed his order (coffee, black, and sometimes a slice of whatever pie was on special), withdrew a notebook and a mechanical pencil, and wrote until five minutes before closing, only pausing occasionally to stare off into some middle distance before he started up again. Then he packed his belongings, dropped a wad of cash on the table—enough for his bill and an extravagant tip—and left.
There were times when I felt him watching me, and I couldn't stop myself from glancing in his direction. He never looked guilty or pretended he hadn't been staring. His eyes, fathomless black, would meet mine for a long moment and then his lids would come down, heavy lashes shading those dark, dark eyes, and a mysterious smile would curl his lips at the corners.
It had taken me three weeks to build up the nerve to ask his name.
"Ross," he'd said.
I'd smiled, feeling nervous and shy, despite the fact that I'd been serving him for nearly a month already. "I'm Emery."
His eyes had flicked to the name tag on my shirt, and that small, enigmatic smile made a brief appearance. "I know."
We hadn't said much to each other beyond that. I was dying to know what he wrote in that notebook for hours on end, but I never asked. It seemed way too nosy, and I didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable. I just wanted him keep coming back until I'd gathered enough courage to invite him out to dinner or maybe even some coffee. Just not at the diner.
Judging from the way he looked at me, I thought there might be some interest there, but I was way too familiar with rejection to risk putting myself out there, or opening myself to potential ridicule, without being absolutely sure. That night I would have been happy with nothing more than his silent company, but no doubt he had somewhere better to be than in some crappy diner keeping a lonely waiter company on Christmas Eve.
I glanced at the clock again. Only five minutes had passed. Maybe it was time to reorganize the freezer. Sighing, I turned toward the kitchen. I was halfway there when the door slammed open behind me, the decorative bells jangling wildly.
I spun around, my heart racing, thinking it had to be the wind because no one was crazy enough to be out in that storm. But Ross stood in the doorway, panting roughly. His normally slicked back hair was disheveled, standing up in black spikes all over his head, and there was blood on his throat.
"Oh, my God!" I grabbed a towel from behind the counter and rushed toward him. "Your neck! Are you all right? Come in. Let me—"
"Never mind that." He stepped into the diner, pulled the door shut and bolted it. "Get your jacket. It's not safe here. We have to go."
I blinked up at him. That was the most he'd ever said to me. I hadn't realized that his voice had such a low-pitched, raspy quality. Coming from those perfectly sculpted lips, it was sexy as hell, and temporarily distracted me from what he was saying.
"Emery," he said, and I snapped back to attention. "We have to go. Now."
"Go? But I can't close up for another forty-five min—"
"None of that matters right now." His hands gripped my shoulders. "Something is happening. Something awful. And we have to go. There are too many windows here."
"I—what do you—"
"I'll explain later. You need to come with me now. Where is your jacket?"
"It's in the back. But, Ross—"
He released me abruptly, and I was left staring at his back as he disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen. I could feel my eyebrows furrow in confusion. How surreal. Had I fallen asleep on the job? I didn't remember feeling tired. What did he mean something awful was happening? And how could he expect me to just close the restaurant early? Jeff would kill me. There was a security camera above the register, and there was no doubt in my mind that—
A sudden bang on the glass window behind me made me jump, a distinctly unmasculine yelp escaping before I could stop it. I looked over my shoulder, not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't a shirtless, crazy-looking man with blood foaming from his mouth.
"Christ!" I stumbled back a few steps and bumped into the vintage gumball machine we kept in the entryway. It teetered precariously, and I made a grab for it out of instinct, tripping over my own feet in my haste to stop it from falling. Balance shot, I fell forward, arms extended, and the heavy gumball machine tipped in the opposite direction.
Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. The machine struck the door with a loud crack and the dispenser burst open, sending brightly colored gumballs in every direction. Fractures appeared in the glass pane, spreading outward from the point of impact in a spiderweb pattern, the sound like the ominous crackle of thin ice over frigid water.
The man outside lashed out, hitting the door with both fists, and the glass shattered in a rain of razor-sharp pieces. I scrambled back on my knees, only partially aware of the sting in my palms as tiny slivers of glass pierced my skin.
"Emery!" A hand closed around my upper arm and yanked me up to my feet. "Get back. Grab your stuff and be ready to run when I tell you."
Ross thrust me behind him as the man staggered forward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, as if his joints were too stiff or not working as they should be. He bared his teeth at us, growling deep in his throat as bloody spittle dribbled down his chin.
I saw a glint of metal in Ross's hand and realized he was holding a butcher knife from the kitchen. Fear surged in my chest. "Wh-What's going on!?"
"There'll be time to talk later, I swear, but right now I need you to trust me. We have to get the hell out of here."
The man in front of Ross lunged toward us with an animalistic grunt that sent a streak of cold down my spine. Abruptly I knew that Ross was right. The questions could wait.
I practically dove for my jacket, which was lying on the floor next to my book bag, and tried to keep an eye on Ross as I shrugged it on. He was circling slowly, maintaining a careful distance between him and the man with the bloody mouth.
I didn't understand what was happening, but I could tell that there was something seriously wrong with that guy. His skin was a sick, leaden gray, and there were several large gouges down his left side. As he moved, swiping at Ross with clawed hands, I saw the muscle and sinew shifting through those gaping cuts. The sight of it made me shudder.
Ross dodged as the man came at him again. "We're going to go out the back. When I count to th—"
His voice broke off as his boots slipped on some of the gumballs and broken glass littering the floor. I watched in horror as he fell, the butcher knife flying out of his hand and spinning away from him across the linoleum tiles. The other man was on him almost immediately, snarling and biting at the arms that tried to fend him off.
My lungs seized up as I watched the scene unfold, and I experienced a moment of pure, frozen terror before reality slammed down hard and heavy and snapped me out it. I looked around, searching for a weapon. There was nothing readily available save the massive jar of pickles on the counter and the stand from the gumball machine.
As Ross and the other man thrashed on the floor, I went for the metal stand and hefted it into my arms. It weighed more than it looked, but I managed to lift it, holding it up near my shoulder the way I would a baseball bat. The bloody man was still on top, his head darting toward Ross in quick, cobra-like motions, his teeth snapping. Ross grunted as he tried to fight the guy off. I could see the sweat on his forehead, read the obvious strain in his expression.
"Hit him. Do it, Emery!"
I swung the metal stand toward the man's head, wincing when it struck his flesh with a sick, squishy-sounding thud. He jerked and went limp, falling onto Ross's chest in a boneless heap.
Ross shoved the man aside and got to his feet. "He won't stay out long. Come on."
But I was stuck in place, my eyes fixed on the man on the floor, my breaths coming shallow and fast. "Oh God … did I kill him?"
"He'll be fine. Let's go."
"B-but shouldn't we call the police?"
"He's already dead. Or undead. I don't even know. What I do know is that we have to leave. Right now."
"Already dead? Wh-what are you—"
My words ended with a choked gasp as the man on the floor suddenly lurched upright in eerie silence. Blood seeped sluggishly from a gash near his temple where I had hit him. His eyes, glazed white and strangely flat, turned toward me. Without any warning, he pounced.
I hit the floor hard with all of his weight on top of me. The breath whooshed from my lungs as his fingers gripped onto my shoulders to hold me in place. I stared up at him, helpless, panic closing in fast. His head started to descend, his jaw gaping wide to reveal pink-tinged teeth, coming closer and closer.
His face was only centimeters from mine when Ross was suddenly there, the butcher knife flashing as he brought it down on my attacker's nape. Blood sprayed across my face and spattered on the white linoleum floor, feeling oddly cold against my skin. The man above me didn't even flinch, just kept pressing down with single-minded focus, his gaze locked on my throat.
Ross brought the knife down again and again. Each blow landed with a wet squelch, the sound so awful I knew I'd never be able to forget it. Finally, my attacker collapsed on top of me, his head flopping as if on a hinge, only maybe an inch shy of complete decapitation. I think I might have screamed then. Bile rose and my stomach heaved. My chest started to tighten, and I could tell it was coming—a goddamn asthma attack, the very last thing I needed. But as I lay there, trapped under a corpse, staring up at Ross, who still had the blood-covered knife clenched in his fist, it was pretty much inevitable.
My airways constricted. I started to wheeze and cough, struggling weakly under the man's deadweight, but I was powerless to push him off. Panic rose and I fought even harder, certain that at any moment he was going to wake up and start attacking me again.
Ross knelt down next to me and shoved the body aside. He slipped an arm under my shoulders to help me sit up and peered anxiously at my face. "Emery? Hey, are you okay?"
I panted, my mouth falling open as I labored to suck air into my aching lungs. I tried to stay calm, tried to keep the fear at bay, but I knew it was useless. The more I fought the constricting feeling, the worse it became, tightening and tightening until it was like being trapped underwater with nothing more than a tiny coffee straw as a breathing tube. I gasped and clutched at my chest. "B-Bag. Inha—Inhale—"