The Restless Dead

[kaijafon]

nicely done! I sure hope you put the fear of MOAR zombies in him!!!!

[walterde]

Hahahahahahaha, that was awesome. I'm almost afraid to ask who that was in the picture. Guess more stringent means are needed for MajorHavoc!.

[dumb blonde]

I think you need to sic the Moar Zombies onto him again...

[Zpocalypse_GBG]

I do love me some zombie Fiction.

Do you think you'll ever release an ebook of these stories for use on a hardened collapse worthy ebook reader should the SHTF?

[jehicks87]

This. Is. SO. Damn. Good.

[DeathDealer75]

Can't wait for the next part this is great stuff !!!!

[ShieldWolf]

Great story and excellent writing Major Havoc. I am a newcomer to the ZS and have been reading zombie fiction for the last year so I have a lot of catching up to do. Major you have talent man. I have read the posts up to august of 2011. I hope you return to finish the story.

[URBAN ASSAULT]

The good Major hasn't updated this MOST EXCELLENT STORY since all the way back on December 3rd, 2011.

That's almost an eon in Moar-years... totally unacceptable!



Please don't forget about those of us whom you've nefariously trapped in here.

-urban

[jehicks87]

The good Major hasn't updated this MOST EXCELLENT STORY since all the way back on December 3rd, 2011.

That's almost an eon in Moar-years... totally unacceptable!



Please don't forget about those of us whom you've nefariously trapped in here.

-urban

I believe What the good Urban Assault means is...


MOOOOOOOOOAR!

[deathstalkertwo]

Crap ! I thought there was moar, but it has been so long since an update I had to go back and read the whole story again, only to find that there really wasn't MOAR.
Not having MOAR really sucks.

[94383Z71]

I hate to stir this thread up and make people think it has been updated with what we all want, but as MH has repeatedly asked for feedback, I feel I owe my first post on this forum to him since he has provided such an excellent story for us all.

I am an avid reader, with my favorite authors being James Patterson, John Sanford, and the late J.R.R. Tolkien. If you can't tell, this wouldn't normally be my standard reading material. But after seeing the link in your siggy while lurking in another thread, I finally checked it out. I could not be happier I did.

You do a terrific job fleshing out these characters, maintaining an impressive balance of dialogue and the zombie slaying we thirst for. This, for me and I'm sure other readers, is (in this case metaphorically) a real page turner, no matter if it's in character development or zombie pwning. I find myself reading near-frantically, because you've got me so hooked on what's going on I thirst for more, now.

I must confess that while I've seen the game played quite a bit, I've never played myself. This is definitely making me want to pick it off the used rack and give it a go!

All in all, a truly impressive job you've done here sir. Since I feel I've left a pretty complete feedback, I must say this......MOAR!!!

[majorhavoc]

With the cacophony of rage and destruction drawing nearer behind us, Donovan and I rise from our hiding place and stagger towards the rear of the darkened storeroom. The flashlight in my hand is nearly useless. Most of its illumination is harshly reflected off the swirling, choking clouds of dust and debris, penetrating only a few feet ahead into the gloom.

Groping, we encounter an interior door at the back left corner of the room. Inexplicably, it‘s barricaded with wooden planks tightly screwed into the doorframe. We manage just two attempts to kick it down before a massive section of store shelving smashes into the wall just to our left, nearly crushing us. Turning around, I can just make out in the dim light a maelstrom of destruction moving steadily closer, systematically destroying the front of the room in the process.

“I-I don’t understand!” Donovan cries out over the din of crashing debris. “Why is this place boarded up on the inside too?“

“I don't know; I’ve got a bad feeling about this place, Donovan. But we can’t stay here!“

I draw Donovan along the back wall to the far right corner of the room. There we find a short hallway leading deeper into the building, terminating at yet another door. This one opens when I turn the knob.

Nothing of this earth could make us want to retreat back towards the monstrosity closing in behind us, but the stench emanating from the darkness beyond this doorway comes close. It is an odor not just of death that issues forth, but of something even beyond it. Donovan and I perceive it as smell, but we experience it in deep within our bones. A cold, dire feeling of profound unwholesomeness washes over our bodies. We each shudder in revulsion and dread.

“Good God, Bill! I don’t think we want to go in there!“

“’Want’ has precious little to do with it, Donovan," I counter over the thunderous noises closing steadily from behind us. "We don’t have much choice! I’ll go first.”

In a just world, whatever lies waiting in the darkness ahead of us would remain forever closed off, entombed in its own wretchedness. The shattering floor boards and another deafening roar a scant ten yards to our rear serve as sobering reminders that we no longer inhabit such a world. I will myself to step forward.

Clearing the doorway, I find myself within the dim confines of a hallway extending to our left. Less dust and debris have penetrated this far into the building, so my flashlight beam illuminates more of what lies ahead. Directly in front of us, the dusty banister of a stairwell materializes out of the darkness, rising diagonally across my field of vision. Through the banisters, the staircase appears to be heaped with piles of clothing and other household debris. The handrail itself is wrapped in a garland of barbed wire, a nightmare version of holiday themed decorations.

Pausing only long enough to gain my bearings, I turn left and lead a suddenly mute Donovan towards the base of the staircase. Casting my flashlight beam upwards, I swallow hard when I discover that what I first took to be clothing and household debris are in fact bodies. Over a dozen men, women and children hang suspended within a lattice of barbed wire crisscrossing the stairs between the hand rails. At least one is decapitated and many are missing limbs or large chunks of flesh. By the looks of it, most of the missing body parts are still intertwined in the barbed wire or litter the steps beneath it. The corpses, I note grimly, are riddled with bullet holes.

I nearly stumble on something dense and soft beneath me as I step around to clear the base of the staircase. Instinctively, I retreat half a pace and quickly direct the flashlight beam downwards. Illuminated at my feet is not another dead body, but a grimy, stained futon mattress. Sweeping the flashlight further ahead, I make out several more, as well as bedding, clothing and suitcases, strewn haphazardly throughout this hallway.

Another doorway leads off the back wall, towards the back of the building. What remains of the door itself hangs uselessly on its hinges, having been smashed open from the other side. The remains of nailed boards and other barricading lie scattered on the floor in front of it. Peering cautiously into this last room, I find it littered with more futons and suitcases. There are two windows on the back wall, but each is barricaded from the inside by boards carefully fitted and screwed tightly into the frames. Whatever broke out of this room didn’t come in through those windows.

I rejoin Donovan back in the dim hallway. For a moment we stand silent amidst the mattresses and strewn clothing.

“A lot of people were camped here at one point,” I observe warily, trying to piece together the clues I‘m seeing.

"Where are they now?“

“I think we’re looking at some of them,“ I reply, gesturing to the macabre still life of bullet ridden corpses entangled in the barbed wire on the stairs.

“These - these look like they were whole families. Good Lord, Bill! What happened here?”

“Somebody in here must have been infected,” I begin slowly, picturing the desperate families packed tightly together in here, seeking refuge. I consider the carefully barricaded storefront, doors and windows. “They sealed this place up tight to keep the zombies out, and when one of them turned, their sanctuary turned into a slaughterhouse.”

“I don’t know if I can bear this much longer, “ Donovan confesses, his voice filled with unease. “There’s something wrong about this place, it - it’s more than the smell … something very bad happened here. I can’t explain it, Bill. But whatever it is, I think it’s still happening. We’re not supposed to be in this place. No one is supposed to be here!

“I’ll grant you that, Donovan. But I think there’s only way left for us to go, ” I say, training the flashlight beam on the bodies leading up the stairs. “Up.”

[ZMace]

Awesome addition, I was just thinking about this story the other day, glad to have an update .

As usual, great job describing the setting, it really makes the story, well that and the people, and the action, etc.

[nathat]

Update woot!

[DTyra]

YES! and I haven't even read it yet!

[DannusMaximus]

MajorHavoc has EXORCISED THE DEMONS!!!!!

[majorhavoc]

Donovan is just beginning to protest when the wall to our right, the last remaining barrier between us and the pursing Tank, suddenly buckles. Almost simultaneously, the floor boards separate from the base of that crumbling wall and the entire hallway floor settles downward by almost a half a foot. With a load crash, the roaring from the enraged tank seems to be coming as much from below us as to our right.

“It broke through the floor, Bill! That abomination is in the basement!“

“It’s tearing this place apart trying to get to us! I don’t think it’ll stop until it brings this whole building down!”

Frantically I look at the stairs. With the floor buckling beneath our feet, the entire staircase shudders as it begins to tear loose from both the wall and the second floor landing. To my horror, I see that many of the corpses ensnared in the barbed wire lattice have begun moving of their own accord. Startled out of their stupor, these zombies begin straining against their bondage to get at Donovan and me.

“We’ve running out of time!” I announce. I grab the closest futon mattress and heave it on top of the three writhing zombies entrapped at the base of the staircase. Their thrashing begins to dislodge the mattress. With no choice, I leap on, weighing it down upon the creatures until it too becomes ensnared on top of the barbed wire.

I turn to see Donovan, eyes wide in revulsion and shaking his head back and forth, slowly backing away from me and staircase.

“Donovan!” I say urgently. “I can’t do this myself! If you want to get out of here, I need you to grab another mattress and hand it up to me!”

At first I think I’ve lost him again to his own deluded world of inner panic. But once more, with agonizing slowness, Donovan gathers his wits, looks around furtively and spots a nearby mattress.

He grabs at it but then lets go. “It’s covered in - “

“- I don’t care what it’s covered in! Pick that thing up and get it up here! Hurry!”

Marshalling his nerve, Donovan hoists the futon mattress onto his shoulder and stumbles on the uneven floor towards me. Grunting with effort, he pushes the second mattress upwards. Grabbing it from above, I fold it as best I can, slide it into position above me and let it unfold onto more of the writhing zombies caught in the barbed wire. I claw my way upwards and onto this second platform, again driving the moaning zeds downward, anchoring the mattress on the barbs.

“I’m coming up!” Donovan announces, climbing onto the first mattress suspended below me.

“No! Donovan, listen to me. We’ll going to need at least two more to reach the top. Get one more mattress and then we’ll trade places, OK?”
Reluctantly, Donovan retreats off the staircase to retrieve another. The mattress underneath me, already undulating with the straining undead, lurches violently to the right as the entire staircase groans alarmingly.

“Hurry Donovan!“ The last tremor has knocked him off his feet. With maddening slowness, he recovers his bearings and staggers upright again, panting heavily, half carrying, half dragging the third mattress to the foot of the stairway. With a grunt he just barely hoists it halfway onto the first mattress, eight feet below me. Sagging against the base of our makeshift ramp, he looks up to me, dejected.

“We’re going to die here.” He announces in defeat.

“Listen to me, Donovan! You’re not going to die here! You said it yourself: God has a plan for you. I don’t know what it is, but it sure as hell can’t be that you’re supposed to throw your life away in this cesspit! Now grab that goddamn mattress, put your back into it and heave it to where I can reach it!”

At first, the only response I receive from this man below me is a withering stare. Then without uttering another word, he determinedly bear hugs the loose mattress, lifts it off the ground and backs away from the staircase. Another booming roar emanates from the basement below us and the floorboards beneath Donovan’s feet again buckle. For a second I think he’s going to fall again, but Donovan deftly sidesteps, recovers his balance and then begins staggering back towards the stairs, gathering speed.

Straining under the weight, he hits the base of the stairwell in something close to a run, lets out a primal roar and heaves the mattress upwards. It hits me mid chest, knocking me over. Donovan climbs up and actually reaches the third mattress from below before I manage to recover. Together we maneuver it into position above us. Another eight feet of crisscrossing barbed wire and two more hissing zombies lie between the edge of this third mattress and top of the stairwell.

Leaving Donovan perched precariously on the third mattress, I slide back down our makeshift ramp and land heavily onto the hallway floor, now tilting almost 15 degrees off horizontal. I have to stumble another 25 feet before I reach the closest remaining futon mattress. Rolling it into a cylinder, I hoist it onto my shoulder and awkwardly turn back towards Donovan. That’s when I see a massive fist, sheathed in bony plates and protuberances, smash up through the floorboards from below. A full three foot gap of floorboards falls out of sight, leaving a dark, yawning chasm between myself and the stairwell.

The Tank’s fist disappears into the blackness below. Mustering all my strength, I lean forward and begin staggering towards the stairway. I reach the gap and leap, with no clear opinion on my chances of carrying my burden to the other side. My trailing foot leaves the near edge of the chasm just before the Tank’s two massive hands reach up and grasp the splintered edge. I land on the other side, stumble once and then ram into the base of the first mattress, heaving my burden towards a gasping Donovan 10 feet above me.

I glace behind me and see our nemesis draw itself up over the edge of the hole it has just opened up from below. Clawing madly, it begins to climb up out of the basement. It’s facing away from us, trying to climb up towards the opposite end of the hallway.

Donovan has slid half way back down and grasps the fourth mattress from above. With me pushing from below, we haul it up to the top of our ramp.

“It’s already stuck on the barbed wire!” Donovan calls down after we’ve pushed it just a half a foot beyond the top of the third mattress.

“Work your way back down to me! We’ll stand it up from below and flip it over.”

Working together, we lift the lower edge of this last mattress and flop it up and over the remaining zombies, now thrashing wildly trying to extricate themselves and attack us.

Again the entire stairwell lurches to the right and I look up to see the top tread and riser begin to tear away from the second floor landing. Only a few groaning boards still connect the top of the stairs to the next floor.

“Move, Donovan! Move your ass!” I roar, slapping him firmly on his rear. With the stairwell now swaying alarmingly from its last few points of contact above, Donovan clamors up and over the splintered edge onto the second floor landing. I’m only three feet behind him, but just as I’m reaching up towards his outstretched hand, the last of the stairway gives way. Suddenly the mattresses, the writhing zombies, the lattice of barbed wire and all means of support drop away beneath me and with it, I feel myself begin falling downwards.

In desperation, I flail about with my right hand above my head. My hand slaps against one of the balusters of the banister encircling the second floor stairwell. Grasping madly, I manage to get three fingers and my thumb around the thin spindle of wood, my pinky smashed painfully against the edge of the floorboard. I can feel my grip slipping.

I want to heave my opposite shoulder higher and grasp my left hand, but I can feel the sudden movement will pry loose the tenuous grip with my right. I’m just looking down to judge where I might fall when I feel Donovan’s fingers close tightly around my trembling right hand, securing my grip. I look up to see he’s kneeling on the other side of the second floor banister, squeezing my right hand around the baluster with all his might.

“Bill! There’s no way I can reach up over the top of this railing and haul you up!”

My reply is a grunt. With my right hand grip secured, I kick with my legs and swing my upper body to my left. Lunging, I grasp another baluster firmly with my left hand. Kicking again in the opposite direction, I swing my right heel and hook it onto the narrow ledge of floorboard running beneath the balusters.

But that’s as far as I can get. I cling in that position, trembling as I feel the strength in my arms waning.

“Dammit Bill! Don’t you dare let go!” Donovan commands as he releases his death grip on my right hand and stands up, quickly bends over the top of banister and horse collars me on the back of my army jacket. Straining together, I work my grip higher on the balusters until I can get first one, than both knees onto the narrow ledge and haul myself, sweaty and exhausted, up and over the railing.

We land on the other side of the banister and collapse onto the floor, panting uncontrollably. Staring up at the darkened second floor ceiling, we hear that the timbre of the shuddering below us has changed, along with the volume and direction of the roaring. We sense that the Tank has extricated itself from the basement, but has momentarily lost track of us. And in its rage, it has obliterated the only easy way to follow us up to the second floor.

I gradually become aware that Donovan’s panting has morphed into hoarse laughter.

“What’s so goddamn funny?” I demand.

“You,” Donovan replies, still chuckling. “Now I even got you talking about God’s plan. Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Bill.”

[majorhavoc]

A deep groaning tremor from within the building jolts us out of our respite.

“I think that was a load bearing wall,” I whisper in alarm.

Rising stiffly next to the banister, Donovan and I peer into the gloom. “Still got that flashlight?” Donovan asks. A bit too loudly.

Before I can answer, another booming roar echoes up from below; the creature below us suddenly aware it’s quarry is now above it and, for the moment, out of reach.

Without uttering another word, I quickly fish the flashlight out of my pocket and pantomime an urgent reminder to Donovan to keep quiet. Cupping the beam, I direct a narrow shaft of light all around us. It lights up a steady stream of plaster dust and larger pieces of debris cascading down from the ceiling above. In the flashlight beam, the debris appear like the falling embers after a fireworks burst. The shower intensifies with each impact from below.

“Were you serious about that Tank-thing bringing this whole building down?” Donovan whispers.

“Actually, I was kidding at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”

Looking beyond the plaster dust, the flashlight beam illuminates three closed doorways leading off this landing, and at the far end, another staircase leading up to the third floor.

“I say we keep moving up,” Donovan offers quietly. “Maybe find the roof?”

“Excellent suggestion. I’m in no mood to waste time searching these rooms.”

Creeping cautiously lest the Tank get a fix on our exact position, we move stealthily to the base of the third floor staircase. I direct the beam upwards, dreading what we might find. The unnerving feeling of unwholesomeness emanating from this building, if anything, seems to be growing stronger by the minute. Above us, all I can see is another landing on the third floor. Redirecting my gaze downwards, I examine the stair treads for any hazards.

“Bill! Did you see that?”

“What? Where?”

“Up there on the third floor, just before you moved the flashlight. I thought I saw something move!”

I’ve redirected the beam upwards and we’re both scanning intently. Passing between the balusters of the third floor banister, the light from my torch casts a riot of dancing shadows across the ceiling and what we can see of the walls up there.

“I don’t see anything Donovan, except more distance we can put between us and that monstrosity chasing us.”

“Maybe it was just the shadows then.”

“Or not. You keep sounding off if you think you see something, Donovan. But what might be above us is just a possibility and what’s coming up from below is very real.”

As if on cue, the floor we’re standing on rocks violently and the second floor landing is filled with a torrent of flying wood. Around the staircase, I can see the Tank’s arm obliterate the banister Donovan hauled me up and over not 30 seconds previously.

I don’t have to ask my companion about our options; looking to his face I see Donovan’s nodding urgently and together we quickly ascend the stairs towards the third floor.

[DannusMaximus]

Nice additions, MH. I'm not sure if you'll make me like Donovan or not, but at this point I no longer hate him. I suppose that's progress...

[majorhavoc]

Nice additions, MH. I'm not sure if you'll make me like Donovan or not, but at this point I no longer hate him. I suppose that's progress...

Just trying to redeem myself for the way I introduced that particular character. The original plans I had for this guy ... it would have been much quicker, much easier and oh, so delicious.

FYI: Nathat's insightful input way back when had absolutely nothing to do with the long hiatus. My epic writer's block struck after I had already begun making changes to the way I was handling Donovan.

[The Mrs.]

This is quite good and makes for a nice read. The story is simple and straightforward, but not too predictable. The characters are developed really well and there's enough dialogue to keep things interesting. I'm glad that you didn't make the conversations overly melodramatic, as compared to another popular zombie novel. I'll definitely be checking this thread for updates. Good work, Major.

[majorhavoc]

The stairs are rocking violently by the time we reach the top, and I only hazard a look behind us when we’ve both safely reached the landing above. There I see - clearly for the first time since Donovan dragged me into this building through the front door - our pursuer, standing at the base of the steps leading up to the third floor.

Within the confines of a building, the Tank appears even more gargantuan than when I observed it on the street. Filling the second floor landing, it actually has to hunch over in order to look up the stairwell. I see now how it is able to move from floor to floor so easily. Once it finds or creates an opening in the ceiling above, it has but to reach up and grasp the floor above it. As easily as I might pluck a can of soup from the cupboard above my kitchen counter.

The Tank flails out its massive arms and knocks down a six foot section of the wall the staircase butts against. It leers back up at us and unleashes another roar. The concussive force causes Donovan to fall back into the corner behind me. I too stagger under the onslaught, but I hold my ground. I know we should run, but since peering into the eyes of that zombie that accosted me on the storefront, I realize I‘m close to understanding something about these creatures. Something previously unknown, but vital. Something we heard nothing about during those terrifying weeks when the news media was still reporting on the infestation.

In the light of my torch I get a good look at its face, comically undersized in proportion of the rest of its body. Jet black, featureless eyes glare back directly at me. The vaguely human-like visage is etched in a perpetual scowl. It radiates a volcanic, psychotic hatred that is nearly as shocking as its booming roar. Again, I sense something beyond the hatred. Something more than hunger. What?

Outrage. Blinding, appalled outrage. How dare we? I think. How dare we …. exist? Why? How? How can we persist? We cannot go anywhere. We cannot be anywhere. Not to these creatures. Not in the same area or the same world or even the same lifetime as these things. Our existence is their central outrage. We cannot be allowed to … continue. We fundamentally offend these zombies by our … our mere living.

My flash of insight is swept aside as I realize the Tank is not likewise pausing to contemplate our differences. Loosening another guttural roar, it begins to ascend the staircase, again smashing the wall anchoring it to the structure. This time, the creature sweeps it left arm forward, projecting a fusillade of plaster, lathing and shattered timber up towards me. I just have time to raise my forearm across my face when I’m blown back into the wall behind me.

Scrambling, I regain my feet just in time to see the head and shoulders of the creature rise into view in the stairwell, less than 10 feet away. And again I see in it’s face the terrifying reality of what we’re up against.

Donovan lets out an audible gasp when suddenly the Tank drops from view, accompanied by a thunderous crash. The stairs, I realize, have collapsed under its weight and the accumulated damage it had caused. Crawling, Donovan cautiously advances to the jagged edge of the landing and peers over. Far, far below us, the Tank lies, thrashing and ensnared in a jumble of debris.

“Ha! It fell all the way back into the basement!” Donovan exults, standing up. “Ha! Why don’t you keep going all the way back to Hell, you mother-fucking, butt-humping, ever-lasting sack of shit you! You stupid ape!”

Donovan looks at me, mortified. “Oh my. Bill, I don’t ever believe I’ve said words like that before. Not ever. Oh dear. I believe I rather enjoyed that. Yes, I certainly did.”

“I think you earned the privilege of cussing out that thing. And it’s going to take it a while to get back up here.”

“Get back up here? It fell all the way back down to where it started! Maybe it’ll just give up?”

“No Donovan,” I advise with a newfound certainty. “No. It won’t. None of these things will give up. Not ever.”

[The Mrs.]

Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems you're trying to infuse some redeeming personality traits into Donovan. To justify his continued existence, perhaps? haha. I, for one, entertained a most gruesome end to his self-righteous self, but I guess all good stories need a character like him to bring out the contrast from the protagonist even more. You have talent in establishing a strong rapport with your readers from as early as your first few posts, as what happened in my case. Can't wait to read more.

[DAVE KI]

This is one hell of a good story.Caught up last nightlight, but was rewarded with an update this morning.Perhaps The Mrs. correct about Donovan?Or all the sudden he saw the light for what it really is.Amazing what a little dose of plain old fear can do to change a persons outlook(hopefully for the best here).
WRITE ON MAJOR! :Awesome: