Hopeless (After Z-Day Book 1) Read online

  HOPELESS

  After Z-Day, #1

  H.S. Stone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by H.S. Stone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means -- electronic, mechanical, photocopying, taping, recording, or otherwise -- without prior written permission from the author.

  Contents

  Day 1 AZ, 6:42 am

  Day 1 AZ, 7:11 am

  Day 1 AZ, 8:00 am

  Day 1 AZ, 9:45 pm

  Day 2 AZ, 11:15 am

  Day 2 AZ, 12:44 pm

  Day 2 AZ, 3:08 pm

  Day 2 AZ, 3:50 pm

  Day 2 AZ, 10:43 pm

  Day 3 AZ, 7:25 am

  Day 3 AZ, 12:50 pm

  Day 3 AZ, 2:01 pm

  Day 3 AZ, 2:34 pm

  Day 3 AZ, 7:00 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 9:35 am

  Day 4 AZ, 11:03 am

  Day 4 AZ, 11:46 am

  Day 4 AZ, 12:25 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 1:00 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 1:54 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 2:12 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 2:50 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 3:20 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 5:00 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 5:45 pm

  Day 4 AZ, 7:07 pm

  Day 5 AZ, 6:10 am

  Day 5 AZ, 6:56 am

  Day 5 AZ, 8:21 am

  Day 5 AZ, 10:23 am

  Day 5 AZ, 11:05 am

  Day 5 AZ, 12:07 pm

  Day 5 AZ, 12:40 pm

  Day 5 AZ, 1:02 pm

  Day 5 AZ, 3:00 pm

  Day 5 AZ, 8:30 pm

  Day 1 AZ, 6:42 am

  The sky is still gray when I wake up. The branches outside of my bedroom sway in the wind, their motion hinting at a soft breeze. The clock on the nightstand next to the window illuminates the time. It’s 6:42.

  Too early to get up. I close my eyes again.

  I hear a thump. It’s too loud to be a footstep, and it doesn’t sound like a knock on the door. Besides, who would knock at 6:42 in the morning?

  The thump repeats. It’s not coming from my room. If anything, it appears to originate from downstairs. It could be my parents. Sometimes they’re up this early, but I don’t know why they would be making such a noise on a Saturday morning.

  After the third time the sound interrupts my attempt to fall back asleep, I decide to get out of bed. I’m a light sleeper, so there’s no point in staying in bed unless it’s quiet. I leave my bedroom, stepping into the dim hallway. Chris’s bedroom door is open. A glance inside reveals his messy bed along with clothes and junk on the floor.

  Did he come home last night? It’s hard to tell. He went out with some friends after dinner and then who knows what else. Our parents gave him a midnight curfew, but that’s merely a suggestion in my brother’s mind. I went to bed at 11:00, so I don’t know if he made it back in time, or if at all. Chris is only a year older than I am, but he regularly pushes our parents’ patience when it comes to returning home at a reasonable hour.

  At the end of the hall, past the family portrait of the four of us, the door to my parent’s bedroom is also open. I pad to the entrance of their room. The bed is made, and there’s no sign of either of them. They went out to dinner with another couple last night and hadn’t returned either by the time I fell asleep, but they must be awake already.

  Another thump reminds me why I’m up. The source of the sound is definitely downstairs. It won’t surprise me if one of my parents is cooking an elaborate breakfast or getting an early start on a weekend project.

  I descend the stairs to the living room. The lights are off. That’s odd. If my parents are indeed awake, why haven’t they turned on the lights? But then, I think, what if it’s not them? What if there’s a burglar in the house? A burglar would have to be an idiot to stay in the house after making such a racket, but I can’t be sure.

  I freeze, debating what to do. From what I can determine, the noise emanates from the family room, which adjoins the living room. The downstairs forms a circle of connecting rooms, with the living room and family room on one side of the house and the dining room and kitchen on the other.

  My phone is charging in the kitchen. I can call for help. I can also find large knives there, useful in the event of an intruder.

  As softly as possible, I tiptoe away from the thumping sound. I stop at the end of the wall that marks the entrance to the kitchen. Crouching low to the floor, I crawl until I can sneak a peek inside.

  The kitchen is dark and, as far as I can tell, empty. I chance another quick glance to confirm. Then I stand up and take a few cautious steps inside. My feet are silent as they cross the linoleum. I grab my phone from the charging station, checking that it’s fully charged and then slipping it into the back pocket of my shorts. I also notice that neither my parents’ phones nor Chris’s are docked there. Where are they?

  The next order of business is grabbing a knife. I don’t want to risk making any noises by opening drawers, but there’s a knife block on the counter. I opt for an eight-inch chef’s knife. It’s not the biggest blade we have, but its size and weight feel comfortable in my hand.

  I exit the kitchen on the other side, bringing me to the dining room. I edge along the wall, knife in my hand and butterflies in my stomach. The dining room lights are off, and so are the ones in the family room beyond. There are no moving shadows, and there are no other noises.

  Once inside the family room, another thump sends my heart racing. I grip the knife so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I expect to see someone else in the room, but all I can make out is the furniture. I turn around in case someone has snuck behind me, but no one is present. I’m alone.

  Then I realize what the sound is. Something is banging against the patio door separating the family room from the backyard. My first thought is that a bird flew into the glass, but why would it do so repeatedly? Also, the sound is wrong for a bird.

  The drawn blinds prevent me from seeing what is striking the patio door. It’s unlikely that I need to worry about a burglar though. What kind of burglar announces his presence like that? It could be a different animal than a bird, but I don’t know of any animal that will continually run into a glass door. Since I can’t see what’s outside, I keep a firm grip on the knife as I approach. With my free hand, I tug on the chain that opens the blinds.

  They slide apart to reveal a boy. He slowly raises his right arm and then lets it drop forward. When his hand slaps against the glass door, the impact creates the thump I’ve been hearing.

  Upon closer inspection, I recognize this boy. It’s Tristan Carpenter. He’s five or six years old, if my memory is accurate, and he lives down the road. My first instinct is to open the patio door to let the poor boy inside, but I hesitate.

  He doesn’t look well. His skin is gray, too gray even in the early dawn light, and there’s something odd about the slack expression on his face. There also appears to be a wound on his neck. Blood doesn’t run from the wound, but the flesh hasn’t scarred over either.

  Tristan’s eyes lock on mine. He opens his mouth and lets out an inhuman moan. A liquid oozes out of his mouth, too dark to be saliva but not red like blood. At the sight of me, he runs into the patio door. His face strikes the glass full on, but Tristan doesn’t cry. It’s as if he doesn’t even feel the pain.

  He charges into the door again.

  At first, I’m too shocked by what I see to move, but once I regain my senses, I back away from the door. Thankfully, because Tristan is a
small boy, his assault on the patio door shakes the frame, but there’s no immediate danger that he’ll break through.

  I retreat back to the dining room, then into the kitchen. What in the world is going on? Where are my parents? Where is Chris? And why is Tristan Carpenter in our backyard, looking like a ghoul from a horror movie?

  I take my phone out of my pocket. I should call the police. No, that’s probably an overreaction. I should call Tristan’s parents, but I don’t know their number. Maybe my parents do.

  I unlock the screen of my phone. I dial my mom’s number, but instead of hearing it ring, I receive a message that “all circuits are busy at this time.” I try my dad, but the same warning greets my attempt. I call Chris as well to no avail.

  My voicemail indicator shows no new messages, but I dial my inbox just in case. I can’t get through.

  Next, I check my email. Across the top of the email app is a banner declaring BREAKING NEWS. I can’t contain my curiosity, so I click on it. The link takes me to a web page run by a reputable news site. I scroll through the first few articles, but they all talk about the same thing.

  “Worldwide Chaos and Deaths.”

  “Zombie Apocalypse!”

  “The End is Here.”

  I choose an article at random and proceed to the full text. I can’t believe what I’m reading. I navigate back to the main news page and select another article. Then one more. They tell the same story. Within the last twenty-four hours, a rash of reports surfaced from around the world, raising alarms about a new infection. The symptoms include slow and/or jerky movements, loss of speech and higher intelligence, and a thirst for violence. Some reports claim that the disease can also reanimate the dead. No one knows how it started. No one can locate the epicenter because similar events occurred within hours on every continent except Antarctica and, surprisingly, Australia. The latter closed its borders until further notice.

  From what the articles say, the problem is growing exponentially. Each wave of zombies—and that’s what the news stories call the victims, for lack of a better word—creates an even larger wave by infecting the surrounding population. The number of victims is unknown but thought to run into the millions in the U.S. alone.

  My hands tremble, and I nearly drop my phone. My parents. Chris. Are they still alive?

  I dial their numbers again, praying that one of them will answer. Each time, the “all circuits are busy” message is all I get. I punch in 9-1-1, hoping that an emergency call will bypass whatever is clogging the phone circuits. However, that doesn’t work either.

  I can’t reach my family, and I can’t reach anyone for help. I am alone.

  Day 1 AZ, 7:11 am

  In my panic, I don’t notice right away that the thumping has stopped until I remember the zombie version of Tristan Carpenter in our backyard. I leave the kitchen and cross the dining room, stopping at the entrance to the family room. Not only has Tristan stopped throwing himself at the patio door, but he’s gone completely quiet.

  If he sees me, he’ll slam against the door again to get inside, so I lean my head into the family room very slowly. Half of the glass door comes into view. I can see the backyard, but there’s no sign of Tristan. I stick the rest of my head into the room. He’s gone, nowhere in sight.

  Some kind of substance has smeared onto the glass, either blood or the stuff that came out of his mouth. It’s gross, and I’m glad it’s on the other side of the door. At the moment, cleaning it off is not my biggest worry.

  I shut the blinds so that Tristan can’t see me if he returns. I don’t know where he went. Perhaps he forgot about me when I left the room. It’s possible that, for zombies, out of sight means out of mind.

  I catch myself. I’ve been using the word “zombie” as if that’s what little Tristan Carpenter really is. But how else can I explain how he looked and how he acted? Also, there are the news stories from all over the world proclaiming that zombies are real and taking over. “Zombie” is indeed the best word to describe the Tristan Carpenter who thumped on the patio door.

  Another thought enters my head. Maybe Tristan hasn’t left for good. What if he only left to gather zombie reinforcements?

  I need to make sure the house is secure. I go from room to room, closing all of the windows and doors that lead outside, locking them if possible. For safe measure, I shut all blinds and curtains so that no one can see that I’m here. When I finish with the first floor, I go upstairs and repeat the process with the bedrooms and the study.

  After I’ve covered every window, the house lies in darkness even though the sun is now up. It’s also quiet, too quiet for my taste. I should be able to hear my parents talking or Chris snoring. Instead, all I hear is my own breathing. Another reminder that I’m alone in our house.

  I stop in front of the portrait of my family hanging in the upstairs hallway. The four of us are all standing up straight, posed by the photographer but trying to look natural. Chris and I are at the ends, with Mom and Dad in the middle. My hand rests on my mom’s shoulder while her arm wraps around me. Dad has a hand on Mom’s back. Chris stands close to Dad but doesn’t touch him. He’s too much of a cool teenaged boy to make physical contact with his parents. Mom and I wear dresses in matching floral patterns, and Dad and Chris are decked out in suits and ties.

  Both Chris and Dad complained about dressing up for the photo, but Mom insisted on one last formal family portrait before her little boy and little girl became adults. I worry now that we’ll never get the chance to take another picture together.

  I pull out my phone again. I dial my family’s numbers but hear the same annoying message as before telling me that I can’t complete my call. As I’m about to call them once more, I have an idea. If phone calls can’t get through, maybe text messages will. Don’t they use different channels? I can’t believe I haven’t thought of that earlier.

  To each member of my family, I send the message, Are you OK? I’m worried about you. Text me back. I don’t stop with my parents and Chris. I text everyone on my contact list, asking them to reply if they can.

  Just after I send out the last one, I receive a reply. I’m stunned. There’s someone else out there.

  The text is from Max Tomlinson, a classmate. I don’t know him that well, but I have his number because we worked on an English project together last semester. His message simply says, Hi, Sara. What’s up?

  My fingers hover over the phone as I consider what to say. From his casual retort, I wonder if he’s heard about what’s going on. Should I tell him? And now that I know I’m not the only living soul in town, I’m not sure what I need from him. I could ask him about my family, but there’s no way Max would know what happened to them. He doesn’t know who my parents are and knows Chris only by reputation because we attend the same high school.

  As I deliberate over my response, Max texts, Are you OK?

  No, I write back. My family didn’t come home last night. I’m alone in the house.

  I don’t mean to reveal so much, but his innocent question feeds my desire to share my worries.

  What do you mean? Max writes back. What happened? Is there anything I can do to help?

  He must not know about the zombies. If I just learned about it, Max may still be in the dark.

  I appreciate his offer to help, especially since we aren’t close friends, but what can Max do? I can’t ask him to go out and look for my family.

  I reply, Have you heard from anyone else today?

  No, but I haven’t tried yet. I just woke up. There is a pause before the bouncing dots signal that he’s typing again. Weird. My parents are screaming about the news. Something about the end of the world?

  A few seconds later, another text appears. Are they serious? Is it as bad as they say?

  I don’t know. I just found out myself. I texted everyone on my contact list, and you’re the first person who replied.

  Oh, man. A few seconds elapse before his next message. How many people did you text?

&n
bsp; About a hundred.

  I feel special to be among such select company. He adds a smiley face emoji at the end of the sentence.

  I can’t tell if he’s taking the news about the zombie apocalypse more calmly than I am, or if humor is how he deals with tragedy. I tell him, Thanks for writing back. Glad to know someone else is out there.

  No problem. I’ll try contacting the people I know. Wish me luck.

  Good luck, Max.

  I hope whatever’s happening isn’t as awful as my parents make it sound. I mean, zombie apocalypse? That can’t be real, right?

  I don’t want to burst his bubble by telling him that I saw a zombie outside my house. Max has been more courteous to me than I have a right to expect, especially since I contacted him so early in the morning. He’ll learn about the reality of the situation soon enough on his own or from his parents.

  I reply, Let me know if you hear from anyone else? I’ll do the same.

  Will do. Later.

  I set my phone down on my lap and take a deep breath. At least one other person is still alive. Well, more than one person since Max’s family is with him.

  The home screen on my phone displays the time. It’s not quite eight o’clock yet. Perhaps the reason why I haven’t heard from anyone else is because the rest of my friends are still asleep. If Max and his family are fine, other people must be too. There could be a perfectly rational explanation why my parents and Chris aren’t home, one that doesn’t involve the rise of zombies.

  Despite Tristan Carpenter looking like an undead monster and trying to break through our patio door, I want to believe the situation isn’t as dire as the news stories make it out to be.

  An alarm interrupts my thoughts. It’s coming from inside the house, and it’s loud enough that I can hear it clearly from my bedroom. That means someone outside the house can hear it too, including the zombies.

  I sprint out of the room.