New York Outbreak Read online

  Journal of the Undead:

  New York Outbreak

  S.G. Lee

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the publisher or author of this book except where permitted by law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (or, in some instances names/places are used and/or depicted consensually). Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. This book does not purport to provide accurate descriptions of any actual locations, things, or entities. This is an original work of fiction and all intellectual property rights are reserved by S.G. Lee, Author.

  ***

  Cover art by: Reyna Pryde—http://reynapryde.com/

  Parataxis Publishing

  http://parataxispublishing.com

  Copyright © 2014 S.G. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13:

  978-0692468784 (Parataxis Publishing)

  ISBN-10:

  0692468781

  DEDICATION

  In all I do, everything is dedicated to the love of my life, my soul mate, also known as, the only person who could put up with me until death do us part.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  i

  1

  August 3rd

  1

  2

  Flashback

  Pg 7

  3

  September – Eight years later

  Pg 10

  4

  Buck

  Pg 84

  5

  October

  Pg 89

  6

  Homeward Bound

  Pg 179

  7

  Marietta

  Pg 243

  8

  A New Hope

  Pg 354

  9

  Journal Entries

  Pg 405

  10

  February

  Pg 417

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I want to thank my family and friends for your support. Your encouragement means the world to me. Words could never express the enormity of my gratitude.

  Very special thanks to my mom, not only for instilling proper grammar into my young mind as I grew up but also for editing my work. Nothing brings a smile to my face faster than hearing my mother talk about the impending zombie apocalypse.

  Thanks, Dad, for your expertise in explosives and detonation. You’re the real ‘Mr. James.’

  To my phenomenal Beta Readers: Linda Rosendale, Andy Glick, Kenneth Harmon, and Tom Leeland, thank you. Your insights and keen eye for typos have been invaluable. I am so fortunate to have friends like you.

  Many thanks to the lovely and talented Reyna Pryde for creating another fantastic cover. Is there anything you can’t do?

  Continued thanks to my older brother, Jim, for his behind-the-scenes contributions and support—they are too many to list. Also to my younger brother, Nick, for giving me fodder since you were born. You really are a character and I actually got to say, ‘You suck’ to you for the whole world to see.

  Last but never least, my eternal thanks to you … the readers! Your reviews and kind words have humbled me. I am truly honored and it has been a sincere joy to share the worlds I create with you.

  August 3rd

  From his favorite bench in Central Park, Floyd Parker watched the sun dip closer to the horizon. The brilliant blue sky, speckled with puffy white clouds that showed the faintest tinge of pink, would soon display vibrant colors of a summer sunset. Sunlight glistened off the lake, dazzling his rheumy eyes. He tried hard not to notice the wide arc joggers and sightseers took, as they passed him. He knew it was the stench that made them veer as far away as they could. Further down the path, a pair of uniformed policemen strolled nonchalantly along their beat.

  “C’mon,” Floyd muttered to his pals. “Let’s beat it. The cops will be makin’ their way up here and tell us to move along, anyway.”

  Stooping to pick up the two tattered sacks which held all of his worldly possessions, Floyd’s joints crackled as he groaned. He brushed a few errant strands of greasy hair back under his grimy cap and started on his way. Long ago, he and his companions had stopped caring about the looks of disdain and wrinkled noses of the masses. Occasionally, a sympathetic gaze fell their way accompanied by some spare change, or perhaps a leaflet of scripture, but usually folks hurled insults from a safe distance— typically up wind.

  “I’m figurin’ it’s about time we try to find a shelter. If I can smell us, we must really be ripe. Besides, my old, weary bones are achin’ to sleep on somethin’ softer than a park bench.”

  Floyd chuckled at his own joke but his friends remained silent. Berta and Hal had been his sidekicks for the past few years. They were his sole source of companionship on the hard city streets. He imagined that, in her youth, Berta had once been almost pretty but it was hard to tell through her filthy, matted hair, scars, and rotting teeth. They never spoke of how they all ended up on the streets. As time passed, it grew harder to remember when or why they ever began traveling as a group.

  They trudged on in silence to the seedier side of the city, toward The Mission, in hopes of a meal and a safe place to sleep. The line already stretched several blocks and Floyd mumbled that it must have been later than he had realized. As the line inched along, Floyd’s tension grew. He worried; will we make the cut off?

  He, Hal, and Berta had gotten close enough to see a kindly minister in the entrance, welcoming downtrodden souls to his shelter. Just a handful of homeless stood between Floyd and the doorway. His stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  “I’m sorry,” a mammoth of a man stepped forward; his arms outstretched. “We’re full.”

  A chorus of disappointed groans rose from the line, as they scattered in hopes of finding someplace else to stay for the night. Floyd remained frozen in his spot. They had been so close.

  “Couldn’t you just squeeze us three in?” Floyd pleaded with the giant man.

  Baffled, the man looked at Floyd for a moment before shaking his head.

  “I really am sorry, man. If we violate the fire code, they’ll shut us down for good.”

  Floyd muttered that he understood and motioned for his friends to follow as he shuffled away—head down and shoulders slumped. Safely out of earshot, Floyd remarked that it was a sad day when they had to hire bouncers at the mission. Again, he was the only one to laugh at his own joke.

  “Tough crowd,” Floyd quipped.

  He glowered back at the onlookers, who scowled in disapproval. In general, people seemed less sympathetic during the summer months but he, Hal, and Berta had grown accustomed to it. When all else failed, they always fell back on their old standby: snatching a few bags from the nearest fast food restaurant’s dumpster after dark.

  It never ceased to amaze them how wasteful society had become. Perfectly good burgers, nuggets, and fries were tossed away without a second thought. Floyd wagered that the entire country’s homeless could be fed solely from discarded fast-food that was ‘too old’ yet still entirely fit for human consumption.

  ***

  With their stash in hand, Floyd and his companions trekked to another favorite haunt. Far from the harsh glare of streetlights and disapproving society, the three huddled under a dilapidated overpass and rummaged through garbage bags for their dinner. In the flickering glow from an oil drum fire, they dined in silence. The only sounds came from zooming cars above or the crackle and hiss of greasy burger wrappers, or empty fry cups, igniting. With half-full bellies and a half-full bottle of rotgut whiskey to share, the evening had shaped up better than they’d hoped after Floyd’s shelter plans fell through.

  ***

  The echo of a distant moan drifted on the wind, making Floyd’s skin crawl. His sleeping friends did nothing to offer him comfort.

  “Hmm, I wonder what kinda tortured soul can make a sound like that.” Floyd chuckled nervously. “Givin’ me the creeps!”

  As the sound grew louder, he rose to find the source. No need to wake the others, Floyd thought as he staggered to the alley for a peek. There was something peculiar about the sounds gurgling from the ragged body stumbling toward him. Despite balmy summer temperatures, Floyd felt chills ripple up his spine. He decided to head back to his friends and hope the groaner would sleep it off in the alley. Most importantly, he hoped the guy would leave them alone. We don’t need no trouble, thought Floyd. He tiptoed back to the guttering fire and tried to rub away the goose bumps. Draining what remained in his bottle, he waited for warmth to spread through his limbs and numb his mind.

  When Floyd opened his bleary eyes again, the fire had gone out and he wondered how long he’d been asleep. The sounds of shoes, dragging on pavement, made him guess that the groaner was moving closer but it was too dark to see. He fumbled for a pack of matches in his deep pockets, and hoped for a few extra wrappers left to burn. Without bothering to look, he dumped the remnants from the garbage bags into the rusty oil drum and tossed the match on top. The smell of singed paper filled his nostrils and Floyd chuckled at his own silliness. After all, he told himself, there’s no reason
to be afraid. Musta been the cheap booze messin’ with my head.

  He turned to address his friends but before a word could escape his lips, a pair of thick hands clamped around his neck from behind. Floyd tried to scream but his windpipe was crushed in a vice-like grip. Blood filled his mouth as the attacker’s fingers tore through his throat. In his panic, Floyd tried to warn his friends. With all of his might, he kicked the oil drum hoping the noise would wake Hal and Berta. The attacker’s teeth plunged into Floyd’s neck and ripped away a mouthful of flesh.

  In a rare moment of clarity, Floyd looked at their makeshift campsite. There was no Hal. There was no Berta. His companions had only ever been a figment of his imagination. Had it not been for his excruciating pain, he might have laughed at the absurdity of trying to warn imaginary friends. Regrettably, Floyd knew when the creature had its fill; he would die as he had lived. Alone.

  Flashback

  October 23rd

  Dear Diary,

  I finally did it! For months I’ve been saying that college is a total waste of my time and that I wanted to quit so I could move to New York. Well, now it’s done … I am officially a college dropout. I want my dream now, not later! My drama coach always said I have real potential so why wait? Sandra Bullock quit college to move to New York and look at her now! Shirley MacLaine and Julia Roberts both moved to New York right after graduating high school. Heck, look at Madonna! If they can do it, why can’t I?

  So, I did a little research online and found an apartment, nothing fancy but it’s a start, right? The online application took forever to fill out but they do same day approval. The bank confirmed the transfer of my first month’s rent and security deposit so I called the landlord. He said I can move in this weekend, if I want. Mom isn’t speaking to me but Dad said he’ll get her to lighten up. If she doesn’t, I won’t thank her in my acceptance speech when I win my Academy Award!! 

  I have a little money saved and Gram said she would loan me some too. That’s why I decided to take her last name as my stage name. (That and she has always been my biggest supporter) Dad thinks it’s a great idea too. I was afraid he’d be disappointed, like, he’d think I was snubbing his family’s name but he said Cassandra Taylor has a nice ring to it! I think so, too. I never would have had the courage to chase my dream without him and Gram in my corner. I wasn’t supposed to see it but Dad hid an envelope stuffed with cash in my bag to help me get a start on my big break. In the meantime, I’m sure I can find a job waiting tables or something. More later!

  Love,

  Cassie

  ***

  October 25th

  Dear Diary,

  Yesterday, Mom and I had a huge fight. She completely flipped out because I quit school so I packed up my stuff, tossed it in my car, and drove to New York. I think I liked it better when she was giving me the silent treatment.

  Anyway, it was pretty late by the time I got here. Driving over eight hours practically nonstop was brutal! I was too beat to write, especially after I lugged all my boxes and bags up to the 4th floor! I can’t believe the elevator was out of order. My landlord said the repairmen are coming next week but that didn’t help last night. I set up a bank account today and at least my phone will be installed tomorrow. (It’s more professional to have both a landline and cell phone to put on my resume)

  I’ve been looking through the want ads. There’s not much that looks good but, thankfully, I have a little money to hold me over. Things sure are different here in the city. It’s so noisy and there are so many people! Everyone’s always in a hurry (except for the lonely guy who wanders up and down the streets all day wearing a sign that says REPENT, THE END IS NEAR) I really thought that was only something you’d see in the movies. Anyway, I’m going to a couple of open auditions tomorrow so wish me luck!!

  Love,

  Cassie

  september— Eight Years Later

  The audience sat with baited breath, waiting, as the presenter flashed a brilliant smile for the cameras.

  “And this year’s Academy Award, for Best Female Lead, goes to…” Again, the presenter flashed her toothpaste ad smile, and paused for a gratuitous photo-op, while slowly opening the envelope. “Cassandra Taylor!”

  A chorus of gasps and thunderous applause resonated through the room. Cassie rose from her chair; her lavish jewels sparkled under the spotlight. Awash in the bright flash from paparazzi cameras, she floated through throngs of well wishers to the stage. After a quick air-kiss to the presenter, Cassie took her place at the podium then waited for the cheers and applause to die down. The audience was chanting her name, Cassie, Cassie.

  “CASSIE!” Paulie Greco growled, as he flicked her shoulder with a damp dishtowel. “Quit daydreaming and get back to work. Table six needs their check; nine wants more coffee, and the geezer brigade just sat down. So, you’d better get it in gear or I’ll can your ass!”

  Cassie gave a wan smiled and winked at her boss. He’d been threatening to fire her since her first day on the job, eight years ago, but Paulie’s bark was worse than his bite. Paul Greco, Jr. and his late wife Trudy had opened Greco’s Diner in the late seventies and each year it drew more customers. Considered a local landmark, the diner was always packed and boasted a steady stream of regulars.

  Every Tuesday and Thursday morning at nine-thirty, a group of elderly gentlemen that Paulie affectionately referred to as the ‘geezer brigade’ came in for breakfast. The senior citizen widowers had been coming every week for as long as Cassie could remember. They ate little but tipped big and always sat in her section. Each visit, they quizzed her on classic Hollywood trivia and pried for details from her latest auditions.

  With a wistful smile, Cassie grabbed the coffee pot and headed to table nine. She tried to push the daydream from her mind and remove the mournful expression from her face. Some day, she assured herself. Thankfully, she thought, my regulars are rarely in a hurry. To Cassie’s dismay, she noticed they were one member short.

  “Good morning, boys. Are we sticking with the usual?” Cassie asked, grinning as she poured a round of coffee for Paulie’s geezer brigade. “Hey, where’s Eddie today?”

  The mood turned somber as the men explained that their pal, Eddie, was back in the hospital, again. After breakfast, they would visit their ailing friend and try to raise his spirits. Cassie sighed and shook her head as she took their order to the kitchen. Poor Eddie, she thought, this is his third hospital stay in the last two months. She selected the largest, most decadent looking cinnamon twist from the case, packed it in a to-go box, and added it to the tray for the geezer’s table.

  “This is for Eddie,” Cassie said as she set the box on the table. “Send him my love and tell him not to get used to delivery. He’d better get back in here to see me real soon.”

  The old men managed melancholy smiles at Cassie’s gesture. Cinnamon twists had always been Eddie’s favorite. Not many waitresses would remember, but then they didn’t really think of Cassie as just their waitress. She meant more to them. There were plenty of diners and coffee shops in the area but it was Cassie’s warm smiles and charming conversations that kept them coming back. She always made time to chat and never tried to rush them along, unlike other establishments, only interested in turning over their tables. In a busy, hustle and bustle city, it was rare to find anyone willing to spare a few extra minutes to fuss over a bunch of lonely old men.

  “You’re a good girl,” Artie Gladstone said, patting Cassie’s hand. “Eddie will appreciate this. That hospital food is terrible!”

  Cassie smiled and gave Artie’s hand a squeeze. He was her favorite of the brigade because he reminded Cassie of her grandfather. The rest chimed in their appreciation between bites or sips of coffee.

  “Okay, we’ve got one for you,” a member of the brigade challenged. “In the 1941 film Citizen Kane, who was Rosebud?”