Little Dead Man

Acknowledgments

There are a lot of people to thank for making this novel happen.

Readers and fans that have given me great feedback over the years; my former agent, Adrienne Rosado, for championing the novel in the beginning, and the authors James Melzer, Jenny Melzer, and Jonathan Maberry for putting the bug in my ear to write a YA zombie novel.

I, of course, have to thank my wife for all of her support, too.

But, most of all, I thank my kids, Sam and Annah. They were in the forefront of my mind the entire time I was writing this. They are my inspiration and my drive for keeping the keys a clickety-clacking each and every day. Love you guys!

Foreword

Little Dead Man has had a wild journey as a novel.

The idea came to me when I was driving home from a convention in Pittsburgh in September of 2010. I had spoken with quite a few horror writers that weekend, but the one conversation that stood out was with James and Jenny Melzer. We talked about how Young Adult zombie fiction was gonna be hot and that getting on that bandwagon would be a great career move. Then I had a very brief chat with Jonathan Maberry after a panel we did together and he said YA zombies was the way to go. Agents were looking for zombies!

I took that to heart and during the long drive home from Pittsburgh to Asheville, I happened to look over at a car I was passing and saw two brothers in the back seat (I assume they were brothers). The idea slammed into my brain of writing a novel about brothers: one alive, one dead. But the idea that a zombie brother would be kept alive didn’t fit. Unless the brothers were conjoined twins and severing the connection put the living brother’s life at risk. Bingo! I had my idea.

I had to finish up the novel I was working on before I could start Little Dead Man. But the second I started I rocked right through that thing! I started writing at the end of November 2010 and had a finished manuscript out to agents in February of 2011. In March I signed with an agent and we worked hard to get the novel polished for submission to publishers.

Within just a few months we had quite a few positive rejections. Things along the lines of Great writing, great novel, but not sure how to market it. That sort of stuff. So long story long, Little Dead Man never found a home and just sat there, doing nothing.

Until now. With a quick stint as a self-published novel, Little Dead Man has finally found a home with the perfect publisher, a publisher that gets dark fiction and especially post-apocalyptic zombie horror- Permuted Press!

I’m looking forward to seeing the new life Little Dead Man will lead. Can’t keep a good zombie (novel) down, right?

Cheers,

Jake

Chapter One

1

Today my brother and I turn seventeen and Mom baked us a cake. Well, she baked me a cake. Garth is dead, so he doesn’t eat real food.

I should probably explain better. Mom actually burned us a cake. It was a small fire and I put it out quickly, so no real harm done. It’s okay since Mom’s not the greatest cook and I would have had to choke down a few polite bites anyway. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Sorry, sweetheart, she says as I open the doors and windows to air out the RV.

No worries, Mom, I smile. It’ll clear out soon.

Don’t tell your Father, okay? she pleads, knowing it will upset him and he’ll start in on the psych questions. That usually ends in tears. Hers and his. Of course, Dad has been out on his studies since before we woke up, so he won’t have a clue anything happened.

Dad’s always said Mom used to be an amazing cook before the world died and before Garth and I were born, but she hasn’t been the same since. At least that’s what Dad says and, well, he isn’t always paying attention, so I take it with a grain of salt.

I know it’s your birthday and all, but can you go pick the rest of the blackberries? Mom asks me. They’re gonna dry on the vine in this heat and I’d hate for them to go to waste.

I give her an awkward hug (I’m seventeen now, after all) and set off to get prepped before leaving camp. Small compound really. We have a converted RV that has been backed into a rock outcropping that juts from the ground, which serves as our storage area and safe zone if any necs come wandering by. Usually they don’t make it up here, but lately we’ve seen more than our share and Dad puts them down right away (Headshot, son. Headshot) even though he says killing anything is a crime these days and should only be done as a last resort or for survival.

The total compound is about an acre surrounded by a ten foot chain link fence with razor wire on top and strung through out. There is a second row of chain link and razor wire spaced two feet out from that then an eight foot deep by six foot wide trench. Mom and Dad were prepared when the world ended.

The compound, and especially my loft bed above the RV’s driver’s seat, is all I’ve ever known for a home. I read about houses and condos and apartments and mansions, but I’ve never seen any. Dad says he’ll take me down the mountain sometime to see what the world used to be like and what it has become. But, as with so many things, he hasn’t told me when. I’ve never been more than ten miles from the compound ever.

So, for now, my impressions of the world, or at least the way the world used to be, are from the books I read. And I’ve read a lot of books. Dad has to make trips to scavenge every once in a while and he always brings me back books.

Mysteries, fantasy, non-fiction history, fictional history, medical books, technical books, horror, romance, teen, pulp. You name it, I’ve read it. What else is a kid going to do in a dead world?

Sure, I can hunt and fish and all that other outdoorsy stuff, but that gets old. Reading doesn’t. Not for me.

2

Seventeen… Wow…

In all the books I’ve read, turning sixteen was the big deal in the old world, back before the necros came to be. Kids used to get their own cars and have huge parties, at least the girls did. Something called sweet sixteen. Dad says the parties were for the pretentious elite and were a huge waste of money and resources. I don’t really understand the whole money thing, but Dad says it was what made the world go round. Since my parents couldn’t give me a car, Dad spent a couple weeks last year showing me how to operate the RV. I didn’t get to drive it, since it’s our house, but I know what all the buttons and pedals do.

Even without cars, money, and cake, I guess seventeen is pretty important since my parents never thought I’d live past one or two. Having an undead conjoined twin stuck to your back can really worry the parents. Dad tried to separate us more than once, but my blood pressure dropped too low every time and it wasn’t worth the risk. Mom doesn’t ever speak of Garth. She acts like he isn’t there, but I do catch her staring when she thinks I’m not looking. I’m not sure what the problem is really, I’m used to Little Man and he’s used to me. Just like brothers in the books we get on each other’s nerves, but that’s life, right?

Well, life might be stretching it a bit when talking about Little Man (that’s mine and Dad’s nickname for Garth). Mom got pregnant just as the world ended, when the necros came to be, and my parents were able to escape up here to the camp. Dad’s a scientist, behavioral virology, and Mom was a surgeon, so they had everything prepared: all the supplies, equipment, resources, just in case there were any complications.

There were complications. Best laid plans and all that… (That’s Steinbeck, not my favorite author, but beggars can’t be choosers).

I think about all this as I go through my equipment and weapons checklist: machete in sheath and strapped to my leg; spiked baseball bat on my back, next to Garth; 9mm Beretta on my hip with three extra magazines; ten inch serrated hunting knife on my belt with heavy gloves tucked next to them; folding shovel in my satchel along with matches, a canteen, a large plastic bag and two smaller plastic bags, an extra t-shirt and a towel. Over the years, in order to keep from tearing my skin, Little Man was supported in a deer hide sling that would strap under my arm, across my chest and around back. Now my skin and his has hardened, becoming rough, but pliable. Sorta like a big callus that surrounds where his body connects to mine. The only problem now is it gives him more mobility and as I drape the alert whistle over my neck, Little Man grabs at its cord, as always, and I have to swat his hand away. He grunts at me, but I ignore him.

Mom and Dad knew they were having twins and everything was going fine until a week before the due date. Mom was checking vitals and could only find one heartbeat. That alone would be terrifying, but even though there was only one heartbeat, she could feel us both moving. Dad had to cut us out. Like I said, Mom hasn’t been the same since.

Garth had his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. He was dead for only a day since Mom checked our vitals like clockwork. But dead for a day is all it takes with the necros. Twenty-four hours from death to undeath. Such is the way of the necros.

Necros… Homo Sapiens Necrosii. That is what Dad has classified them. A new species all together. It’s his obsession and keeps him away most of the day, and sometimes all night. He calls them HSNs. I call them necros, or necs, but Dad doesn’t like this. He says it’s derogatory and I should know better because of Garth.

Mom never speaks about them and prefers we don’t either. Dad calls it denial. I call it crazy, but I keep that to myself. Crazy moms are in a lot of my books, so I guess she isn’t breaking any new ground.

I systematically unlock the inside gate, re-lock it, double check that it is secure, walk the thirty yards to the outside gate, unlock it, re-lock it, check that it is secure and finally make my way down the trail to the creek and the blackberries waiting to be picked.

Little Man died in utero (in the womb), but since my parents only had a portable ultrasound machine, they couldn’t tell that he and I were connected. Conjoined. When I was young I’d read all these books about kids with normal lives, without their brother hanging from the top of their spine, and I’d be so jealous. But, over the years, I’ve gotten used to it. He’s Little Man.

He ain’t heavy, he’s your brother, Dad jokes. Says it’s lyrics to some song by a guy named Neil. I haven’t heard it. They brought equipment, food, weapons and other supplies, but Dad forgot the music (still makes Mom pretty angry), so all I know is what Mom sings while she works or what I’ve read about. Dad doesn’t sing, or at least we tell him not to.

Apparently, Little Man and I share spinal fluid and major blood vessels. This is why Dad can’t separate us, although he hasn’t tried in quite a few years. He isn’t the surgeon like Mom, but she’s taught him a lot and if he has one thing going for him, he learns fast.

When you’re older, maybe, he says. He wants my body to stop growing first so he knows what he’s dealing with. Garth’s body hasn’t grown since we were born. He’s a nec and necs are dead and the dead don’t grow. They just erode.

They petrify, not putrefy, Dad has told me.

The virus that turns a human into an HSN (to use Dad’s term) kills everything, not just the host body. It kills all bacteria, other viruses, microbes, yeast, anything and everything a human body could have n it or be exposed to. This means that once a person turns into a nec they don’t rot away. Instead, they end up changing with the weather. They become kinda spongy when it rains or hard and dry, during a drought. Their body only breaks down by natural exposure to the elements, or friction as they move. This leads to some interesting looking necros out there.

But, since Little Man is connected to me, and my blood and spinal fluid, he doesn’t erode like the rest. He just stays Little Man. I get bigger, he stays the same size.

He does stink though.

Nec farts are awful.

3

Hush, I warn Little Man. Stop wiggling and moaning. He quiets down quickly. He’s usually pretty good about minding me which fascinates Dad.

Dad…

He spends most of his time out in the field, as he likes to say.

We have to study the HSNs, Garret, he’ll tell me when he knows Mom isn’t listening or when we are out on our hikes. They are the dominate species now and we must learn from their behavior so we can survive.

Not sure what we can learn from them. Only thing they do is look creepy and eat. Eat people. Not animals, but people. What’s to learn?

We get about a half mile down the three mile trail when Little Man shifts again and gives a high squeak. This time I don’t tell him to hush. Instead I get off the trail quickly and duck behind one of the many large pines that are everywhere here in southern Oregon. That squeak means necs are getting close.

Little Man squeaks again, just to make sure I’m listening and I reach behind and pat his head. As usual, he tries to bite me, but he wasn’t born with teeth, and being dead, they never came in. I swat at him absentmindedly and he growls a little, but hushes up. I’m usually pretty good at knowing when necs are close, but I’m lost in thought today. Birthday musings. Dad thinks my sensitivity to necs has something to do with Garth. That I’m naturally more aware of the necros. Whatever the reason, I don’t care, since it’s the only way Dad was able to talk Mom into letting me out of the compound on my own.

Now, here’s the thing about necs: there’s more than just one kind.

Dad calls it genetic variability. His theory (god, does he have some theories) is that since each person has many genetic variables and predispositions when alive, it stands to reason they will have the same variables when they are dead. Or undead. Whatever.

Some necs are just slow, shambling creatures. They walk from place to place, their noses and ears leading them to what they hope will be food. They never run, they never make any noise, they just shamble. They’re the easy ones to deal with. We’ve had a surprising amount make it all the way up to our camp and we just wait until they shamble off. Dad usually goes out and puts them down once they are far enough away.

Other necs are a little more animated. Like the lurkers. Those guys wait. They’ll be in a ditch, a hole, a cave, behind a tree, under a bush, behind some rocks. Doesn’t matter, they just wait for prey. There is always one around somewhere. They are pretty quick, but not too bright. They think since they can’t see you, you can’t see them. Usually parts of them are sticking out from their hiding place, so they really aren’t too hard to spot. All you have to do is circle around, come up from behind quietly and SPLAT! Off goes the head.

Now, the ones you have to watch out for are the runners. These guys you don’t mess with. It’s easier to hide and let them move on than to face them. Mostly because they run in packs.

The runners are the evolution of the Hunter gene, Dad says. Some people were born to farm, some were born to hunt. Runners are the latter.

Runners are fast. And I mean fast! Trust me, runners can, and will, chase you down. Dad and I have come close before, but luckily we’ve gotten away every time.

Know your surroundings, G, is another of Dad’s sayings. Always know where you are in relation to what’s around you. That knowledge can mean the difference between life and death.

Oh, and runners can climb too. That’s why we have the razor wire on the compound fence.

But what Little Man has warned me about is none of these. What’s close to us is one of the broken.

4

The broken…

The poor, pitiful thing grasps at the dry dirt of the trail, desperate to pull itself along. I can see that its legs were gnawed off by other necs when the thing used to be alive. Used to be a person.

From the look of its torn chest and the matted pony tail hanging down its back, my guess is it used to be a woman. Its clothes have long since rotted away and its grey-blue skin is shiny from what Dad calls dead sweat. That’s just ambient moisture that seeps from its undead pores.

Its head is barely attached to its body and dangles down from the neck. With each movement the head bobs slightly, reminding me of one of my childhood toys. It’s kinda comical, but not really when you think that this used to be a person.

I unsheathe my machete and stand over the nec. It struggles to raise its eyes to me, but its head won’t cooperate and the thing starts to hiss in frustration.

Kill it, Garret, my Dad’s voice whispers from directly behind me, causing me to yelp and nearly drop my blade.

Dad! I fume in a hushed yell, since where there is one nec there are usually others. Don’t do that!

Sorry, G, he apologizes, squeezing my shoulder. You shouldn’t let them suffer. Just do what’s needed.

Yeah, I know. It’s just I wasn’t looking forward to digging.

Part of killing a nec is disposing of the body. Even though necs don’t eat other necs, they are attracted to the dead ones. Dad has a theory on this, of course. The main problem with necs is they don’t decompose. So the body has to be covered in at least three feet of dirt or they attract others. If they decomposed, it wouldn’t be such a problem since they’d just rot away to nothing eventually. But, as I said, one of the many wonders of necs is that not only are they dead, so are the trillions of bacteria and yeasts that inhabit a living human body. Microorganisms that would normally breakdown the dead flesh don’t. Nothing lives on or in a nec. Nothing.

We spend a lot of time burying necs.

Kill it, G, Dad says again.

I step close and bring the machete down through the thing’s skull. It collapses instantly and is still forever. I look at Dad and roll my eyes, take off my satchel and pull out my shovel. Over there looks good, I say, pointing to a spot well off the trail that doesn’t look choked with tree roots. I hate tree roots.

I agree, Dad says and we both pull on our heavy gloves to keep from getting infected.

Viruses are contagious. This is something Dad has drilled into me since I was old enough to understand. What changes the living into living dead is a specific virus that can be transmitted by bodily fluids, including blood, saliva and dead sweat. This isn’t one of Dad’s theories. He states this as fact. I’ve asked how he knows for sure, but he never answers and Mom usually changes the subject or stares off into space like she hasn’t heard anything.

We each grab an undead arm and pull the nec from the path. Dad and I are big folk, as Mom likes to tease. We’re not fat, that’s not really possible these days, but we are tall and muscular, so we have the thing off the path and to its final destination in no time.

Start digging. I want to take a sample, Dad says.

Why? You’ve taken thousands of samples. You never find anything, I complain, more from having to dig alone than because he’s wasting time taking a sample. Give it a rest, Dad! They’re all the same: dead! As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. Garth. That’s why Dad takes samples. Even though I’m connected to Little Man night and day, I forget sometimes he’s a nec. He’s just, you know, my brother. Sorry.

Dad gives me a weak smile, but I can see that it’ll be a while before he lets my comments go.

Just dig, Garret, he mutters as he pulls out several vials and a scalpel from his own satchel and proceeds to slice bits of skin and hair from the corpse.

I push the shovel blade into the ground and start furiously tossing dirt to the side. Usually I don’t let things get to me, having an undead twin teaches you patience, but this time…well, it’s my BIRTHDAY!

After a few shovelfuls of dirt accidentally stray towards Dad he sets the vials aside and stands, giving me his sternest look.

So, what’s eating you? he asks, his hands on his hips, ready to argue.

Nothing, I mutter and continue digging.

Out with it, Garret. I don’t need any whining today.

You don’t…? I toss the shovel on the ground and laugh. Oh, well, wouldn’t want to get in the way of Dr. Weir’s important day! He starts to speak, but I cut him off. Do you even know what day it is?

Of course. It’s Thursday, August 29th. He just stands there, all grumpy faced, and I wait for it to hit him. Three…two…one… Oh, crap! It’s your birthday! I’m so sorry, G.

You’re about a foot and a half too late for sorry, Dad, I grumble, picking up my shovel and starting at the hole again.

Stop, Garret. I’ll finish for you. I really am sorry I forgot.

I’m sure you are, but I’m already a sweaty mess so I might as well finish up here. Why don’t you go pick blackberries. I’ll be down to the creek to wash off in a minute. He starts to speak again, but once more I cut him off. Just go. I’ll be there soon.

He gives me an apologetic nod, grabs up his things and heads back to the trail.

I keep digging.

5

Living in southern Oregon is no picnic.

By the time I’m done digging the hole, tossing in the corpse and then covering it over, I’m drenched in sweat from the hot, dry air.

It doesn’t help that Little Man is grunting and hissing the whole time, complaining over the exertion and the sweat that’s covering him. His small fists swat at my back with every angry grunt and it’s all I can do from reaching back there and slapping him silly.

Stop! I yell, way louder than I should. I’m answered by another string of hisses and then his feet start in. Garth, I swear I will hold you under for at least five minutes once we get to the creek!

After a few more grunts he shuts up, knowing I’ll make good on my threat. You see, necros don’t need to breath. Their lungs work since their muscles still work and the diaphragm is nothing but a big muscle that pumps the lungs like a bellows. Well, the side effect of having working lungs is that they can fill with water. Little Man hates it. His little body gets all bloated and heavy and he can’t vocalize or move right. This isn’t a problem for other necs since they’re dead. But, Little Man is connected to me and different. I’m pretty darn sure he thinks and feels (despite what Mom wants to believe or not). And, being the brother that I am, I take advantage of this when I can.

Yeah, you’re quiet now, I mutter as I grab up my things and start back down to the creek.

We walk for a few minutes and the trail is extra dusty (we haven’t seen rain in weeks) and I wish I hadn’t emptied my canteen back there digging, but the creek is close, I can hear it, and cool, clean water is in my future. I can almost feel it on my skin when Little Man squeaks.

I guess before I get to cool down, I have to get past the shambler. Dammit, don’t the necs know it’s my birthday?

It’s because you made me yell, I blame Garth. He growls a bit and slaps me, but keeps still after that, sensing the other nec.

I know better, I really do, but I’m just so tired and dirty and all I want to do is get clean and have a swim and eat a few blackberries (if Dad doesn’t get distracted and forget to pick some). Even though I know better, I pull my 9, take aim and put a bullet right between the nec’s eyes. Skull, brain, blood and hair splatters against the trees behind the nec and its now truly dead body crumples to the ground.

I know the second I pull the trigger I’m in deep trouble.

6

What did you do! Dad shouts as he runs up the trail from the creek. That shot can be heard for miles! We’ll have even more making their way here!

Then maybe you shouldn’t be shouting! I shout back.

I wouldn’t be shouting if you hadn’t been so stupid! What were you thinking?

I don’t know! I wasn’t! I’m tired and hot and dirty and I just want some damn blackberries!

Well, I left the blackberries back at the creek! I was lucky to grab my satchel! He stands there glaring at me, blaming me. I don’t care. Get your gloves on and help me get rid of this thing. He sighs and puts his own gloves on for the second time today. Did you get any back spray on you?

No, I was far enough away. I just get my gloves on when the sound of twigs snapping makes us both stand straight and grab for our weapons. Garth starts to squeak over and over, his legs and fists slamming against my back and shoulders.

Hush! I whisper, knowing necros are on the way. Little Man isn’t ever wrong and my gut is telling me there’s more than one.

Dad drops the nec’s arm he is holding and pushes me back up the trail. The sound of branches breaking and underbrush being shoved aside grows louder. It’s gotta be runners! They must have been following the shambler! Go!

What about…?

Forget the corpse! We don’t have time! We have to zig-zag back to the camp. We can’t lead them there!

I nod and sprint to the right, off the trail and away from the oncoming noise. I’m yards away before I realize Dad isn’t with me.

Dad! I cry, trying to keep my voice down. Dad!

Nothing.

Little Man starts up again and won’t stop, no matter how many times I swat at him or tell him to be quiet. Okay, okay! We’re going.

I run. Legs and arms pumping, the dry air burning my lungs, but I don’t dare stop. Little Man has quieted down except for when I have to leap or duck suddenly and jar him. It’s times like this when I know he can feel, when I know he has pain in his life…well, in his death.

Dad and I have practiced the zig-zag escape many times, so my feet know where they are going automatically and I’m back at the compound in no time. And so are the necs. Lots of them.

7

I can see them before I break from the tree line, so I’m able to stop myself without being seen.

Of course, Little Man can’t see them, just knows they are near, and starts squawking. I reach back to shush him, but it’s too late. They see us.

Six runner heads whip about, their undead eyes locking onto us.

Time stands still.

Six of them. I’ve never seen that many at once before. Dad’s said he’s seen dozens packed together down the mountain, but I always had a bit of doubt about that. Until now.

Garth can sense my fear and his squawks turn to yelps, high and loud. I don’t try to quiet him, knowing it doesn’t matter now. Stumbling backwards, I reach out to steady myself against a tree, but my hand hits semi-soft flesh. Dead flesh.

I spin and the thing is already on me, growling and clawing. I shove hard, knocking the nec back, but it’s enraged and hungry and my shove is like the wind. It reaches for me and my eyes fall on the thing’s hands, just sinew holding bone together, the skin and muscle long worn away by years of erosion. Without muscles and tendons, it can’t close its hands, can’t grab onto me and it just swipes at me over and over, trying to get close enough to sink its teeth in.

I kick out, connect with its right knee and send it to the ground with an audible snap of bone. I reach back for my spiked bat and as I do I feel teeth clamp down on my fingers. I cry out and spin around, grabbing at my hand. My heart leaps into my chest and for a split second I think I’m dead, that it’s all over, that I’m infected, but I realize I never took my gloves off and the nec couldn’t get through the tough leather.

Garret! Down! I hear Mom scream and I fall to the ground just before I hear the rifle shot. I cover my head with my arms as brain and bone spray everywhere and the nec crumples. I hear eight more shots and then silence.

The nec I took down claws at my jeans and tries to pull my leg over to its mouth, but I get my 9 loose and put two in it’s left eye.

GARRET!!! Mom screams. GARRRET TELL ME YOU’RE OKAY!!!

I roll onto my side, careful as always not to crush Little Man, and take a deep breath. I’m fine, Mom! I shout back, taking a couple more breaths before I push myself to my feet. Are you okay?

I can see her inside the fences, tears are streaming down her face and she lets the rifle fall from her hands as she falls to her knees sobbing.

Hold on, Mom! I’m coming in! Everything will be fine! I yell as I get to the ditch and toss the planks in place. My feet barely touch the wood I’m moving so fast and I’m inside with both gates secure in a matter of seconds. I scoop Mom into my arms and let her bury her face in my chest, her body shaking violently as she cries and cries.

Shhhh, I soothe, stroking her hair. Shhhhhh. I’m fine. They didn’t get me. I’m fine and Little Man is fine too. She cries harder at the mention of Garth and I regret the words instantly.

They…were…so…close, she stutters. They…were…going…to eat…you.

I laugh a little. That’s what they do, Mom. But I’m alright. I push her away a bit. See? No marks. No bites. Nothing.

She gives me a weak smile. "There’ve never…been that…many