Unit 9: Zombie Unit Book 1 Read online

  Unit 9

  Zombie Unit: Book One

  By: Stanley Gray

  Other titles by Stanley Gray

  Gems of Paradise Series

  Traits of Darkness

  Tales of Woe Series

  A Killer’s Secret

  Zombie Unit Series

  Unit 9

  Alpha Unit

  Unit 9 by Stanley Gray Published by William Gray 375 Cherry Dr., Eugene, OR 97401

  www.authorstanleygray.blogspot.com

  © 2018 William Gray

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address above

  Facebook.com/realstanleygray

  Facebook.com/zombieunit

  Cover by Fiverr

  Ebook ASIN: B07J1K458Y

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please respect and support indie authors. Buy only authorized copies from reputable retailers. Stanley Gray is available for speaking engagements and author interviews. Please text or call 5416320690 for information on how you can obtain premium bulk discounts for book clubs, corporate wellness programs, or other large groups.

  Author’s Note

  This book is disruptive.

  It intentionally challenges many of the perceived flaws in zombie fiction, as well as making serious, hopefully credible, attempts to explore difficult subject areas within the confines of an entertaining story. One might even say that this work delves into the allegorical nature of the zombie tale. And perhaps there is a metaphor in not just this work, but in the tomes that will follow in the series. The zombie story is, generally speaking, a gory version of the old road-trip plot. It saddened me to see such a beautiful literary plot potentially cheapened by commercialization and cheap gimmicks. Thus, Unit 9 attempts to bring a level of sophistication and storytelling ability to the popular sub-genre.

  But, believe me, it still has the gore and uncomfortable scenes.

  Moving on, many that know me understand I am profoundly committed to addressing what many rightfully see as one of the most pernicious and under-reported crises of our time: separating art from the artist. It is imperative, in my view, that one make a distinction between the novel and the novelist. There are myriad reasons for my firm belief in this, not the least of which is that even bad people can create beauty. Sometimes good people are capable of creating crap. In the internet age, it can often be hard to determine what is truth and what is not, and this adds further fuel to my belief that we should not judge a book based on who wrote it. Or a painting based on who painted it. Et cetera. It does a disservice to the arts to reduce them to pandering, slandering propaganda or didacticism. It hurts and undermines legitimate national discourse on important, though sometimes sensitive and emotionally charged, topics.

  I bring this up because, though this series does address some important topics that should concern us all, and can be viewed as an extended metaphor, I as an author strive to remove all biases, personal objectives, and opinions from a story. The craft of fiction literally helped save my life. I feel I owe it to the real people who may someday read this story to create compelling, challenging narratives that disrupt one’s narrow view of the world while simultaneously reaffirming it. A single mother may read one of my books while on the bus in between her second and third job. A frail and dying elderly man may read one of my stories while in the hospital waiting for a last kiss from a son he can only vaguely remember. They deserve more than just words on a page.

  Thus, I attempt to deliver that. Please do not turn my works into a cause celebre. This is not and was not ever intended to be a political monograph. I’m relatively apolitical in my private affairs, and I really just want this to be a good, engaging story. Part of what may make this story great is the unconventional approach to the perennial tale.

  The protagonist is not a typical hero. That is one of the disruptive elements described above. This is not a uber-masculine shoot-em-up survivalist story. It is a tale of human endurance in the face of unspeakable horrors and against unimaginable odds. In fact, the male main character is raped early on.

  I mention this now, because the subject of rape is sensitive and can cause emotional trauma for survivors. It is not and never was my intent to make light of the very real pain sexual assault survivors endure every day. If this is an issue that causes the reader potential discomfort, then perhaps it might be best to either take a step back and pace yourselves, or else not move forward at all. I will never hold it against the reader if they feel unable to proceed because a scene triggers them or is deemed offensive. Again, one reason for being upfront in mentioning this is to prepare the reader for what lies ahead.

  There is also graphic violence, a lot of profanity, and sexual content. It’s a thriller. The zombie apocalypse is nigh upon us. The protagonist is thrown into a fucked-up boiling cauldron and has to scrabble and scratch his way out of the much to survive.

  Switching gears, many people helped make this book possible. Miriam Major, of course, and her wonderful family offered a tremendous amount of support and love during the many weeks it took to put this all into place. A number of online friends sacrificed time and energy to critique early versions, solely to help me improve the story and experience for you, the reader. Thank you, everyone.

  A special thank you is owed to my mother, as well. She’s not around any longer, so she won’t be able to read this dedication, but I add it nonetheless because her memory deserves to be honored. My mother suffered from the debilitating illness of multiple sclerosis. She grew up dreaming of one day being a writer, and worked grueling hours over one summer to purchase a beautiful desk and hutch. Some of my most poignant memories of her are seeing her, quietly weeping in the wee morning hours, at that desk, mourning the loss of a dear friend. M.S. stole my mother’s ability to do what she loved, which is writing.

  That woman spent many hours reading to me as a child. She seized every opportunity to instill in me a sense of wonder and an ardor for stories. I write not just out of compulsion and passion, but out of an earnest desire to help ensure her dream did not die.

  Thank you for inviting me into your home and head. I hope that you will be terrified and entertained.

  I’ll leave you with one final note: please consider leaving a review. Reviews help independent authors such as myself tremendously. Not only could they increase visibility, but they also offer a signal. If no one tells the author what they did right, or wrong, it is hard for the writer to make meaningful improvements. But, ultimately, reviews offer simple validation to the author. They tell the world that someone purchased the product, consumed it, and took something away from the experience. Most writers don’t do it for the money. We do it to foment a reaction, to bring someone joy, pleasure, or new perspectives.

  Thank you again. Enjoy.

  Chapter 1

  He knew he was fucked.

  Walking through the dizzying, dry heat, wind whistling as it swept past, he knew it. More than a vague intuition, the truth of the thing sat heavy on his heart. Tom Martinez understood something bad was about to happen; he just felt powerless to stop it. Whatever it was.

  The tall, sleek building reflected the sunlight. Even with da
rk sunglasses shielding his eyes, Tom felt the glare. It seemed somehow fitting, the menacing, weaponized brilliance. A veteran of the game, he knew many of the tricks. Blinding and disorienting targets was but one of them. Even so, the awareness of the tactics did nothing to alleviate the discomfort they caused. Just behind him, close enough so that Tom could smell the man’s cheap cologne, was an El Paso city cop. Sergeant Baldwin chewed gum incessantly, and didn’t bother to do so quietly. He smacked his lips as if he’d just eaten something sour. A crabapple, maybe.

  A blast of frigid air welcomed him into the building. The El Paso Gazette. With their offices located in the sleek, modern new building owned by the Van Fleets, the newspaper had received a facelift. But, more importantly, it had been the recipient of a healthy infusion of much-needed cash. At a time when everyone seemed to be going digital, Mark Van Fleet was buying newspapers.

  Walking across the shiny green tiled floors, his footsteps echoing, he couldn’t help but feel the quiet. There was something…sacred, perhaps, about it. He paused, smirking when he noted the concurrent action by his armed shadow. The lobby area had been designed with this effect in mind. Airy but somber, the walls and furniture were arranged deliberately to enhance the acoustics. Tom clucked his tongue. He listened to the echo.

  Approaching the large granite desk, he met the inquisitive gaze of the attractive young woman behind the counter. She wore her black hair back, and her cherubic face invited one to spend just a little bit of extra time appreciating for the genetic work of art it was. She had plump lips and brown eyes. “May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  She possessed a husky voice. It had a sultry, seductive charm that only served to enhance the dark allure of this woman. Tom shook off the lustful thoughts that invaded his mind.

  “Yes. I’m, uh,” Tom couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. The acute awareness of the woman’s sexual appeal, coupled with his glorified brute of a babysitter gave him a moment of pause. “I’m Tom Martinez. I was supposed to meet Mr. Slayton.” he managed to stammer. His mouth felt dry. He glanced over his shoulder, silently cursing the sergeant. Why he even needed a bodyguard was beyond him. Well, it was beyond normal logic. Tom understood the real reason for the police presence.

  The woman typed, the sound of her fingers gliding across the elevated black keyboard filling the capacious space. She bit her lower lip and leaned forward, and Tom had to resist the urge to try to move in a bit to see if he could catch a glimpse of some cleavage. Stop it, perv, he thought, reprimanding himself. Tom cleared his throat and shifted his feet. He allowed his mind to wander as he waited.

  Mr. Slayton. Johnson Slayton. The obese and opinionated editor-in-chief of the recently revamped Gazette. Tom had never worked with the man, but he’d been around long enough to know of him. Anyone with a reputation that big, they had to be a world-class asshole.

  Which is just one reason Tom knew he was fucked.

  “Sir?” the woman said. She peered up at him, her lips turned down into an impatient moue. She was tapping a long, freshly sharpened pencil on the desk.

  Tom blinked. He looked around. He smiled. More of a simper, but he tried to recover by adding a hint of something to the gesture to conceal the embarrassment. “Sorry. It’s been a busy week.”

  She gave him a look that told him she could give a damn less about his week. “Mr. Slayton is in a meeting. He’ll see you as soon as he is done. You may go to the visitor’s lounge and have a beverage while you wait.” she said. She pointed with the pencil.

  Tom nodded and headed that way. He proceeded slowly, still trying to get acclimated to this drastically different reality. He also wanted to see if the cope were still tailing him. Turning, he saw that the officer remained at the desk. The son of a bitch was chatting quite pleasantly with the secretary. Jealousy buzzed, strafing him, stinging him before it flew away. He stood there, staring for several long moments. The fat fuck smells like onions, diesel, and dollar-store Cool Mist cologne. he thought.

  Shrugging, he retreated into the walled-off visitor’s lounge. It did feel good to have a moment of solitude. For the last week, he’d been briefed and debriefed, watched and stalked. People that wanted him dead were guarding him from other people that wanted him dead. It didn’t seem like the best situation for alleviating his diagnosed depression.

  He sank down into a large, comfortable merlot-colored leather chair. The material creaked a little as he shifted his weight. It felt good. Really good. Tom sighed and closed his eyes.

  Just the previous Monday, he’d been on the verge of greatness. Standing on a busy downtown Denver street corner, absorbed by the diverse crowd, he’d been waiting. He was about to find out the identity of the person who’d sent him a small manila envelope. The contents of that package had the potential to make him a star. All Tom needed was a bit more in the way of verifying the veracity of the materials, and then he could bitch slap his boss on the way to the bank. Visions of Pulitzer prizes danced in his brain. He’d bought an expensive bottle of champagne the night before.

  As he’d been standing there, steaming cup of coffee held tightly in his hands, he’d felt on top of the world. Tom has discovered something so provocative, so damning, that the world would know his name.

  Then his witness died.

  Tom had never seen him alive. But, he knew. When you’re there to meet a whistleblower, and a man just careens sixteen stories and splats on the pavement in the middle of the day, the obvious conclusion might be that the corpse belongs to said informant. People screamed. Cars screeched to a halt. A few people milled around with their phones out, livestreaming the carnage. Sirens pierced through the veil of darkness. Busy men and women jostled past him, heels clicking on the pavement as they rushed to work. Some people are too busy to stop for a dead man.

  Tom jumped. He lashed out.

  Standing over him was Mr. Slayton. His new boss.

  Chapter 2

  Jaundiced teeth and soulless brown eyes.

  That’s all Tom could see. The man stank. He smelled as if he’d slathered himself in his own vomit then went out to sunbathe for a week. Tom tried to ignore the stench, but it hectored him. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, trying to think. He’d fallen asleep. “Hi. Uh, sorry.” he said.

  The man’s fat face scrunched up as he smiled. A rat’s smile. The gesture did not reach up into his eyes. He reached out a clammy hand, and Tom reluctantly took it. “Hi, Tom. I’ve heard a lot about you. Why don’t you come with me? It’s not a big issue, but I do want you to know I can’t have you falling asleep and…looking haggard.” With that, the man marched away. He didn’t look back to check if Tom complied with his orders.

  Shrugging, trying not to sigh too loud, Tom got up. He followed the man through a heavy mahogany door. A carpeted corridor that seemed endless met them. Offices lined each side. Tom tried to look at some of the name placards as he passed, but his new boss had quite a few steps on him, and walked at a hectic pace. Tom idly wondered, almost chuckling as the intrusive, tangential thought trespassed on his mind’s lawn, if fat people were just naturally fast walkers. The irony was that he couldn’t remember ever encountering a bigger person that didn’t waddle quickly.

  Johnson stopped abruptly in front of a door. He began rummaging around in his pockets, change and keys jingling.

  Tom took the opportunity to catch up. His mind still felt foggy, immersed in the sleep he’d been forced to flee. He kept a few feet between himself and the rotund character. The threat of the bellicose odor emanating from that foul being was too harsh to ignore. He watched quietly as Mr. Slayton struggled with the keys. His fat fingers trembled as he tried to insert the slender silver object into the narrow hole. Johnson muttered to himself, the words stumbling into each other as they bumbled out of his bluish lips.

  Finally, he succeeded. He rushed in without looking back. Tom had to catch the door just before it latched closed.

  Tom took a moment to look around. The office seemed small, for an editor-in-chief.
There was no window. A single bookshelf dominated one wall, reaching nearly up to the white drywall ceiling. The room was hot and vaguely musty. Taking the solitary chair positioned in front of the desk, slightly off to the left, Tom sat down. He tried to focus. What was coming would probably not be pleasant. His career could be on the line, here, and he needed to find a way to outmaneuver these malevolent fools.

  Mr. Slayton did not sit immediately, however. He went to a shelf just behind his desk. Next to the shelf sat a large metal file cabinet. On top of the cabinet rested a variety of trinkets. They appeared to be Dungeons and Dragons figurines. Tom smiled as he appraised them. He felt a little dorky for knowing the origins of those items, but he did, and he seized the opportunity to deduce any clues as to the true identity of the mysterious man who now helmed a small media fiefdom.

  “I read your piece on medical malpractice.” Johnson said.

  The words ambushed him. Tom looked up. He’d been immersed in a thoughtful analysis of the man’s cramped office, and had almost completely lost track of the fact that the man was still there. He frowned. He chided himself for this lapse. “Thank you.” he said. Tom wanted to remind the man that the relevant article had not, in fact, been about medical practice, but about adverse preventable episodes, which was something else entirely. But, he somehow managed to keep his mouth shut. He waited. As he did so, he wondered if perhaps the man had mischaracterized things on purpose, as a test.

  “Incisive.” Mr. Slayton said. He sat down. The chair shuddered under his weight. He steepled his hands and looked at Tom. Took a few breaths. “We do not have the same…level of prestige, as the Denver Courier. You are aware of this, I assume?” he asked.

  Tom nodded.

  “Good. Well, we simply do not have the resources that you may be used to. But, it is good to have such a… decorated member on our team.” Johnson said. He looked away. Suddenly, he whipped his head back with a jerky motion. “Do you want to be here?” he asked.