Elixr Plague: Episode 5: Survivors

  A Zombie Apocalypse Serial

  Marcus Richardson

  Contents

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  SURVIVORS

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  To Be Continued…

  What’s Next?

  Author Contact

  About the Author

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  ELIXR PLAGUE

  Episode 1: Vector

  Episode 2: Infection

  Episode 3: Pandemic

  Episode 4: Apocalypse

  Episode 5: Survivors

  Episode 6: Refugees

  OTHER SERIES

  The Future History of America

  The Wildfire Saga

  Solar Storm

  For my complete catalog, please see:

  marcusrichardsonauthor.com

  SURVIVORS

  Elixr Plague: Episode 5

  Author’s Note

  THIS IS A SERIALIZED STORY

  I’ll say that again: this is a serialized story. I mean, I certainly hope the shit I write about isn’t real.

  What is real is the choice I made on how to publish the story. This tale of the zombie apocalypse will be ongoing and there’s so much taking place that I didn’t want to try and cram it all into a single book, or even a series of books.

  From the first inkling of an idea that formed in my head, Elixr Plague felt better handled with a broad cast of characters in bite-sized installments.

  I realize this isn’t going to make everyone happy. Those of you who enjoy reading on phones and smaller devices may appreciate being able to finish an episode in one sitting rather than trying to hunt down the bigger device or e-reader and pick up where you left off when you were standing in line at the grocery store. If so, great! This story is for you.

  If you don’t like the serialized format, I may, depending on what feedback I receive, compile the episodes when they reach a certain to-be-ascertained critical mass into books with several episodes, or one big box set. That’s a decision for later.

  For now, I want to focus on the story. And the fastest way to get that story to you is break it up into smaller pieces and publish more frequently. This story is in Kindle Unlimited, so unless you actually buy a copy, I make the same amount of money whether it’s broken up or in one big book.

  When you’re knee deep in the zompoc boogaloo, speed is life.

  To that end, I plan to release the episodes of Elixr Plague every few weeks, to give me time to edit to something approaching professional standards. I’d love to just write an episode and fling it out into the wild, but y’all would take one look at all the typos and walk away. Fast.

  So I’m going to temper my need for speed with a good dose of editorial stoicism and see if I can’t maintain a decent release schedule right from the get go. Hey, if I find it too easy, I reserve the right to speed up.

  Right. Enough shop talk, let’s get to that boogaloo…

  1

  Civilians

  First National Bank

  St. Charles, Illinois

  The rooftop access door burst open and Seneca Roberts tumbled out onto the bank’s roof, checking sectors and clearing the area. Ward emerged on his heels, then spun and kicked the door shut. He fell more than leaned against it, gasping for air.

  Seneca dropped to his knees and dry heaved for a moment, letting his heavy pack fall off his shoulders. They were truly safe for the first time in what seemed like days, and all he could think to do was throw up.

  It was the smell. Dear God, the smell permeated everything—it was in his clothes, on his skin—he could taste it for Christ’s sake. That thought made his stomach clench again and doubled over anew, trying to expel a non-existent meal.

  “Well…” Ward said, sucking wind and scrunching his face against the odor, “you sure know how to show a guy a good time.”

  Seneca closed his eyes and sat on the gravel-covered roof, draping his arms over his knees and letting his head hang. Despite the autumn chill in the air, sweat crawled down his face and dripped from his nose. “Glad I could be of service.” He looked up after his vision cleared of little spots and focused on Ward, sliding down the door to sit on the ground. He scoffed. “You look like a big can of fuck blew up all over you.”

  Ward plucked at his gore covered shirt, stained dark with sweat and the black-as-ink zombie blood. “Smell like it, too.”

  They shared a nerve settling laugh together, bathed in the weak glow of the moon, riding high in the sky.

  “Wanna keep it down over there?” a voice called from across the street. “You’re keeping them riled up.”

  “Hey!” Ward shouted back. “Stop shouting! The zekes need their beauty rest!”

  Someone laughed from another rooftop further up the street, the echoing sound harsh, but more human than anything emerging from the streets below.

  “Look here, Rambo,” a third voice said from the hotel just east of them. “Y’all crazy, but you got to think. Stop yellin’ and shut off those damn spotlights.”

  Seneca walked over to the edge of the roof and leaned his elbows on the decorative crenelation, letting the cool night air wick the sweat from his skin. He forced himself to think about anything other than sticky zombie blood drying into a cake-like layer on his clothes, hands, and neck. Could that infect him? Was he already infected? How the hell did people turn into those things, anyway? There was so much to figure out, and for the first time since he’d gotten that damn call from Edith Traviers, he actually had time to think.

  Fuck it, if I’m infected, it’s too late and there’s nothing I can do about it now. We’ll just have to wait and see. His hand twitched. Yeah. If he started to turn, he’d pull out his pistol and put a quick end to things. He clicked off his flashlight and Ward followed suit, bathing the rooftop in darkness broken only by the moonlight. Like an open-topped tomb. Seneca closed his eyes and lowered his head, praying that things didn’t get that bad.

  After his heart rate slowed to a normal level, he sighed. He could either sit there on the bank’s roof and wait to die, or he could do something about what was going on. Maybe getting to Beacon Point would make a difference? Maybe Martin had some way to fight the zombies…or reverse…whatever the hell was going on…maybe.

  Seneca looked up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light cast from the street below. “Who are you?” he called, just loud enough to be heard over the moaning and ruckus in the street below.

  “Sam. Sam Davis.”

  Seneca made the connection but didn’t say the obvious. Ward didn’t disappoint, though.

  “Wait, like Sammy Davis, Jr.?” he asked, moving up next to Seneca, his boots crunching on the gravel covered rooftop. He laughed. “That’s awesome.”

  “No,” Sam sighed. “No, it’s not. I’m Sam. Just Sam.”

  “Dude, your parents—”

  “Fair enough, Just Sam,” Seneca said, cutting off Ward. “I’m Seneca, the comedian is Ward.”

  It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Those gotta be the worst damn code names I ever heard.”

  “Worst?” Ward blurted.

  “Code names?” Seneca asked, peering down into the writhing nightmare in the street below. There didn’t seem to be that many of them when they’d entered the bank. Seneca shuddered. Nope, he wasn’t going to dwell on the hell they’d just escaped. Growling, snapping fury lurked behind every corner inside the bank. He’d felt their grip, firm and weak at the same time as bloody fingers slapped and slithered against his arms and back with every step. He’d welcomed the pain of the hot shell casings when they’d hit his neck—it kept him focused long enough to keep him alive and able to reach the roof. They’d burned through maybe half their ammo and left a swath of mutilated corpses in their wake—the building probably should be razed to the ground rather than cleaned—but they’d survived to live another day. He looked down at the hordes in the street again.

  Well, maybe another hour. If one of them figures out how to climb stairs…

  “Don’t try an’ deny it—you two are soldier boys. I seen it by the way you moved. And even if I didn’t, you two lit up that bank when you went in. Sounded like World War III up in there. Woo!”

  “Awww, it’s so nice to meet fans,” Ward said, the smile evident in his voice.

  “Shit, don’t think I’m a fan,” Sam said, his voice turning sour. “You two ruined all our plans.”

  Seneca frowned. He peered across the dark gap between buildings, but there wasn’t enough light to see more than a silhouette on the other side. “What are you talking about? We were just trying to survive…like anyone else.”

  “Yeah, well so was we,” Sam complained. “Me an’ all the other poor bastards stuck up here like birds. Been up here all afternoon, see? I’m kinda thirsty. We all decided—”

  “Who’s we?” interjected Seneca. “You got other survivors over there?”

  “Naw, it’s just me, dawg. Well, me and Pepper, but he’s old and ain’t said or done shit since I dragged him up here. I’m talkin’ about the ones across the street—over there.”

  Seneca could just barely make out movement as Sam lifted a shadow of an arm to point south at the other buildings across Main Street. Someone waved a flashlight from the roof of what used to be an Irish pub and grill.

  “Hello,” a woman said, her trembling voice barely loud enough to reach them.

  “Ma’am,” Seneca replied. “How are you set up over there?”

  After a long pause, during which the flashlight lowered and went out, she spoke. “I’m hungry, I’m cold, and I’m scared shitless. I can’t get home—I don’t even know…my cat…”

  “Shit,” muttered Ward, turning away to face Seneca again. “She’s fucked, she just don’t know it yet,” he muttered.

  Seneca let her sob for a moment, then he called out as gently as he could. “Ma’am, what’s your name? I’m Seneca, my friend here is Ward.”

  “I heard you talking to Sam,” she replied. “I’m Kendra.”

  “You’re zeke bait,” groused Ward, low enough that only Seneca could hear.

  Seneca nudged him with an elbow—hard. “Shut up, man, you’re not helping.”

  “Ow,” Ward murmured, rubbing his arm. “It’s true, though. She ain’t gonna make it, boss. Listen to her, she’s already checked out up here,” Ward said, tapping his forehead with a bloody finger. “Ugh, gross…now I got zeke guts on my face. Thanks a lot, lady,” he complained, moving away to clean himself.

  Seneca shook his head and tried not to look at the upturned faces down in the street and those haunting, glowing eyes. It was like a pack of wild dogs, all watching from the darkness. He didn’t mind being outnumbered by the enemy—because that’s sure as hell what he was beginning to think of the infected—but he most definitely did not like the ripple of fear those glowing eyes sent down his spine. He swallowed and focused on the building across the street.

  God, I’m thirsty.

  “How long have you been up there, Kendra?”

  “I was meeting my friends here for dinner. It’s…it’s kind of our thing, you know?” she asked, the words coming faster as she talked. “We come here every Saturday night…during the school year…”

  “Sounds fun.” Seneca smiled. He had to get her to stop thinking and keep talking. “What did you see?”

  “I…I was waiting for the others and watching TV…they were talking about zombies or something—I didn’t really believe it—”

  “No one did—ain’t no harm in that, Miss Kendra,” Sam said from the top of the hotel.

  “No…no one did,” she agreed. “The bartender actually gave away a free round to the whole place to celebrate the zombie apocalypse,” she said with a scoff.

  “Sounds like my kinda place,” Ward said, stepping up next to Seneca again, smelling like a baby’s ass. “What? Don’t judge…baby wipes work great. Lightweight, you can use ‘em on anything for anything, and the little pack is waterproof.”

  Seneca snorted and raised his hands in surrender. “Not saying anything. Got any extra?”

  “Don’t use ‘em all up, I only got one more pack.” Ward slapped the little container against Seneca’s chest.

  2

  The Home Front

  Traviers Family Farm

  Wythe County, Virginia

  Edith Traviers, Kathy Alberts the news reporter, and Sean Finley the pilot, sat on her parents’ front porch, eating in silence. They’d found the old farmhouse which had been in her family for generations, going back to just after the Revolution, in good order with a well-stocked larder.

  Cold cuts, bread, and milk never tasted so good.

  Edith leaned back in her father’s wicker porch chair, hearing the wood frame creak as she moved. The colors on the trees, a riotous splash of yellow, orange, red, and gold—mixed with the last few green leaves—the smell of fresh-turned earth, manure, and animals...the sandwiches and the rocking chair. It felt like home.

  First time I’ve felt safe in what...two days? No one around here for a few miles at least. Except the Glovers.

  They’d found the Traviers ranch deserted of course, except for the animals. It being Sunday, Mr. Glover wouldn’t be by to make his weekly check on the farm until Tuesday, per their longstanding agreement.

  He’d left a handwritten note on the counter, explaining that due to the “hullabaloo” in New York—he knew where she worked, but not what she did nor who she worked for—he’d put up extra provisions in case she needed to come home. The date on the note was Friday evening, just before the great cities of America started going under lockdown and quarantine.

  Her parents’ house, a modest, two story wooden structure on a stone foundation, had been added to over the previous 150 years by each succeeding generation of Traviers men, except for her own father. He’d seen fit to leave well enough alone, and not having the huge farming families of generations past, he’d often said there was no need to spend money on making something already great just a little better.

  “Ain’t no sense in fixing somethin’ ain’t broke,” was one of her father’s favorite sayings.

  Things would be better now. They had to be. She’d found a safe place to stay, plenty of food and water, and thanks to a solar setup, the ability to take the house off the grid if—when, Edith reminded herself—the power failed. As more and more people fell sick to the Elixr syndrome, she knew from her brief conversations with Martin that it would only be a matter of time before the power grid collapsed under its own ponderous weight. The system wasn’t autonomous—without workers to regulate the flow of power, a small event like a squirrel chewing on wires could send a ripple of blackouts across the whole continent.

  As she finished her second sandwich and downed another glass of cool, clear, spring water from the cistern, she sighed in contentment and observed her new companions. Kathy, disheveled in her dirty, blood-flecked business suit, missing both designer high heels, picked at her sandwich, tearing off small morsels between chipped fingernails. Her hair was grimy and sweaty, the tips tangled with small twigs and bronze leaves from their last stop.

  Finley hadn't touched his sandwich. He drank three glasses of water, then stood leaning against the railing at the end of the porch, looking down the slight grassy hill toward the open spot between the house and the faded red barn where they’d landed. He’d been staring out over the fields and crops during the entire meal. Every now and then, he would cross his arms or pace the deck, his boots thumping off the boards. He kept whatever thoughts troubled him to himself, though.

  "Kids?" asked Edith.

  Kathy looked up, a bit of turkey, bread, and cheese mashed between her finger and thumb. She shook her head, popped the morsel into her mouth and chewed. "Tommy and I never had kids, thank God." She glanced uneasily at the woods office at the front of the house. "I can’t imagine being worried about a family right now…even as much of a dick as he was, I still kinda worry about him..."

  "What about you, Finley?" Edith asked. "In all the chaos, I never asked—"

  He turned and looked at her, his face dark. "That's right, you never asked—everything has always been about you. Get me out of New York. Get me to Philadelphia. Take me to this podunk airport in the middle of nowhere. Take me to the mountains of southwest Virginia. Did you not once think about us?" he asked, gesturing angrily at Kathy. "You ever wonder if we had children…or—or spouses we were worried about?"

  “Before now?” Edith asked. She leaned back in her chair and regarded him coolly. "I did.” She took a sip of water and put the glass on the side table before continuing. “But I stopped thinking about that the moment you agreed to take me from New York to Philadelphia. If you did have family to worry about, you wouldn't have flown that far away from New York in the first place. You certainly wouldn’t have taken me from Philadelphia to that little airport if you’d had a family to worry about.” She shrugged.

 

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