Controlling the Dead

  PRAISE FOR TAKING ON THE DEAD

  “Suspenseful, thrilling, innovative and even funny at times, Taking on the Dead is a book you will not be able to put down.” – Larey Batz, Author of Second Dawn

  “It is a non-stop ride from start to finish. Taking on The Dead is not just a smash and gash zombie book, it’s a journey of learning how to truly live in a world of so much death.” – Ali Hymer at Ginger Reads Reviews

  “Walls’ prose is clean and often incredibly poetic. She paints a devastating, yet oddly optimistic portrait of the Zombie Apocalypse!” – Carmen Jenner, Author of Welcome to Sugartown and The Undead Revolution

  “It is written with heart, emotion, and a bit of snark.” – Liz Ziolkowski at Fictional Candy

  “For Zombie and post-apocalyptic fans, Taking on the Dead is a must read. Not sure if you love the dead? Then consider reading this for the characters, the suspense and the mystery.” – Kimberly Costas at The Caffeinated Reviewer

  “Taking on the Dead is emotional, gritty and hair-raising! The heroine’s voice instantly pulls you into her world and has you biting your nails at the heart-stopping suspense. Ms. Walls weaves horror, fantasy, romance and humor effortlessly into a vivid post-apocalyptic world you can’t get enough of…even when you’re a little grossed out. With a superb heroine that’s not afraid to get a little dirty, stand up male leads and some supernatural magic, Taking on the Dead is dark urban fantasy at its finest! My praises to Ms. Walls for a spectacular zombie debut that is truly EPIC!” – Lori Arcelay at Romancing the Darkside

  Printed in the United States of America All rights reserved.

  Controlling the Dead

  Book Two

  The Famished Trilogy

  Copyright © 2013 by Annie Walls

  ISBN: 9781311521217

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For more information about author Annie Walls, visit www.anniewalls.com

  DEDICATION

  For Gage. Keep watching horror flicks, buddy. You might get something out of it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It only takes one person to write a book, but it takes a trainload to publish one. Since I skipped out on acknowledgments for Taking on the Dead, here is my attempt at naming all the people who put up with my scatter-brained personality on a daily basis.

  Thanks to Tammy Parks, editor and friend, who steps out of the box to edit my zombie novels.

  Laurin Neely, you’re my bestie, life long friend, and cover model. Thank you, lovely. I heart you forever.

  Dave Mickolas for creating and blowing me away with Controlling the Dead’s awesome book trailer.

  My beta readers, Larry Batts, you’re the man. Your insight into the minuscule details never ceases to astound me, and like last time, you’ve helped strengthen my plot. Angela Adams, Lori Parker, and Janice Mickolas, your notes and comments helped me see I have nothing to be afraid of when it comes to The Famished Trilogy.

  My street team of sexy lady minions, Ali Hymer at Ginger Reads, Liz Ziolkowski at Fictional Candy, Kathy Brandon Geiser at Elf Witch Books, Allison Essin at Fiction’s Our Addiction, Lori Parker at Contagious Reads, Beth Edwards at Curling up with a Good Book, Kimberly Costa at The Caffeinated Reviewer, The fabulous Mandy Anderson at I Read Indie, Naomi Hop at Nomi’s Paranormal Palace, Jennifer Wedmore at Smexy Fab Four, and Lori Arcelay at Romancing the Darkside. Thank you! I don’t know what I’d do without you and your encouragement.

  The Unblocked Writers Group, The Group, Fellow NF’ers, My Minions…these groups keep me sane and keep me laughing with discussions of importance and the not so important.

  Thanks for the laughs, support, and advice of close friends and authors, who would not be that close if it weren’t for the internet. Larry Batts, again? What can I say? You’re the man. tfc Parks, Brandie Buckwine *sniggers*, Crystal Spears, Carmen Jenner, Jeremy Wells, Lindsay Galloway, Elyse Schramm, THE Gif, and Lori Parker and your um, distractions.

  Thanks to Meg Heenan, an awesome reader, for being perceptive and asking a great question during a contest I held earlier this year. You rock!

  Special thanks to my family as always and with love: Angela, Audrey, Alisha, Amelia, Stephen, Gage, and my writing buddy, Margo.

  And last but not least, my readers. This past year has been amazing. I’m beyond words as to how many of you took a chance on a debut author and loved my story enough to want to continue reading it. I love you!

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Haitian Voodoo is a subject I’m fascinated with, and almost always in media and fiction, Voodoo is portrayed in a negative light. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. Voodoo is a peaceful and nonjudgmental religion and should be respected for what it is. Most of the negativity surrounding Voodoo is a myth. I could go on and on about the myths and how they came about, but I won’t. You’re not reading this for a history lesson. If interested, you should research it yourself. It’s exciting stuff. Like most things in my fiction, this is a myth I twisted to fit my story, positively.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I never thought my partner in crime would be a little lady like you,” Reece tells me. I’m breaking and entering in a back alley on the outskirts of New Orleans. The Big Easy. The stench isn’t as bad as the French Quarter’s odor of urine and putrids. With the sizzling sun, it smells like a horrid shake-n-bake bag concoction.

  “Awe, Peanut Butter, you’ll make me blush,” I retort, calling him that because he might appear tough, but he’s all mushy on the inside. In moments of sobriety my scratchy voice brings everything to the surface. Needless to say, I hope it goes back to normal and soon. Reece says it only sounds like a bad case of laryngitis.

  “You might be able to get it open if you take off those glasses. You don’t need them in this alley.”

  I grind my teeth. “No.”

  “You don’t have to hide from me, Kan. Take off the hood at least.”

  I ignore him and finally get the lock open. The door screeches on squeaky hinges. A week ago Reece and I decided to embark on our own journey to New Orleans to see if we can gather some answers. The rest of our team and Dalton went to Birmingham.

  I don’t know if anyone considers New Orleans a dead zone or not. We’ve come across very few famished, but thousands of putrids lurk about. They make good target practice. That’s how we spend our down time—drinking ungodly amounts of pure grain alcohol and shooting putrids from balconies. If I don’t, I’ll get to thinking and I try to avoid thinking.

  The stock of alcohol and food tell us not many looters have been through here. I figure the first wave of famished hit New Orleans hard. The lack of crashed cars or signs of human panic surprises both of us. Reece and I often talk about getting a van to stock ourselves up before we leave, but I don’t want to leave here without what I came for.

  Right now, we’re in a classic Voodoo shop, complete with dolls, chicken feet, and gris-gris. Long since figuring out these shops were tourist moneymakers—loads of crap. Even the books are on making spells for hexes. None have anything to do
with controlling a zombie. Some go as far as communicating with spirits, sending chills down my back. My theory on the person’s spirit being inside the zombie plagues me, and these books only raise my suspicions.

  After searching around and seeing the best sellers before the outbreak, I figure out this is a small bookstore. The Voodoo advertising probably drew in tourists to this part of town. A book catches my eye. Pulling it from the shelf, I check out the cover. Your Invisible Pain. My thumb fans through the soft pages to check out common symptoms for emotional and psychological trauma. My pulse speeds up at words like self-blame, irritability, bad dreams, guilt and withdrawing from others. I place the book on the shelf.

  Still staring at it, I ask, “Reece? Find anything?”

  A crash of stuff falling alerts me to his whereabouts. “Nada,” he says in a loud voice from the back of the store. “Mostly things we’ve seen before. Want me to recite some from memory?”

  Taking a deep breath, I pick up the book and shove it in the front of my jeans. Waving dust away from my face, I trudge to Reece. “I believe I’ve got it down. You think it’s time to call it quits?”

  “We’ve only just started in the outskirts.” He has a point, which is why we came to this hole in the wall.

  “Julie said Mago spends a lot of time here. We have to find something.” I wipe my hand across my face. Sweat and dust cling to me. “Well, it’s getting dark. We should find somewhere to chill.”

  A grunt. I take it as a yes when a bang sounds from the second floor. We glance at each other. The stream of late sun bounces off sweat droplets on Reece’s tattooed head as he glances toward the ceiling. Neither of us moves or makes a sound as we wait and listen. This time creaking wood gives way, sprinkling dust from the ceiling.

  I move toward the hidden stairs, but Reece’s hand lands on my shoulder.

  He shakes his head. “Where are you going?”

  “To kill the zombie.” I point towards the ceiling. Honestly, I’ll do anything to keep from having any down time.

  “Could also be a person, one that knows we’re down here.” We have a stare down before he sighs, relenting. “Fine, but I’m going first.”

  He pushes in front of me taking the stairs one at a time. Halfway up a sweet aroma hits me. “You smell that?” My mouth waters as I sniff.

  Reece breathes deep through his nose and freezes. “Yeah, bananas.” Bananas? Bright light fills the stairway as I hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun cocking.

  “Make one move, and I’ll blow a hole in you.” The voice at the top of the stairs is shaky, but Reece lifts his hands in the air. “I need to see your hands, too.”

  I raise my hands above Reece’s shoulders so the man can see them.

  “Walk up the steps.” We do as he commands, reaching the top landing into the setting sunlight. Getting a good look at the man, I’d say he’s around seventy years old. Sunspots decorate his aged face and balding head. We’re in a loft full of old furniture, hunting gear, non-perishables, and the baked goody cools on a counter in the corner. My stomach rumbles.

  “Marge, search them for weapons.”

  A little old woman pokes her head up from behind a couch and scurries over to us, wringing her hands. She surveys both of us, but her eyes are on me. I start to get uncomfortable when she won’t stop staring at my face.

  Marge finally starts with Reece in her search. “We’re not going to hurt you,” Reece explains.

  The old man’s face turns red. “Only rob us blind!”

  “No, we—” I start, but he levels his gun as if to shoot, and my stomach skyrockets to my throat.

  “I didn’t tell you to speak, wench!”

  Marge pops up from Reece’s boots with her fists on her hips. “Bill, that’s no way to speak to a lady!” She stares him down with a look that can possibly shrivel the rest of the hair on his head. Bill’s eyes never leave me as his mouth scrunches up like my status as a lady is questionable.

  “Fine,” Bill grumbles. “What’s your business then?”

  “My little lady friend thought there was a zombie up here. She has a thing about that,” Reece informs Bill.

  “What were you doing down there in the first place?” he questions Reece.

  I stay silent, watching the two men in their exchange. Marge has a small pile of weapons at her side. “We are looking for someone and any information we can get on what he does.”

  The old man’s eye twitches in what I will call some sort of recognition.

  Marge finds Reece’s sawed-off, holding it up for all to see. Bill’s eyes widen momentarily before peering at Reece. “I’ve always wanted to saw off my shotgun.” Contemplation laces Bill’s voice.

  “I’ll show you whatever you want as long as I can put my arms down. They’re killing me.”

  A snort bubbles through my nose as I try not to laugh. Marge smiles as she takes my guns from the shoulder straps of my new pack. Small hands feel around my waistband, and her brow furrows. Any humor I have dies, and my face heats.

  She lifts my hoodie, removing the book. “Oh dear,” she whispers.

  A long moment passes, and Reece sighs beside me. “There’s such a thing as talking, Kan.”

  I shoot him a glare and hope he shuts up.

  “For God’s sake!” Bill lowers his shotgun and motions to the couch. “Sit down.”

  Marge grins at me. Reece drops his arms like they are putty. Picture frames sit on every available surface. Bill and Marge have been together a very long time. This realization makes my chest tighten.

  Reece and I sit on the couch simultaneously. Bill plops down in front of us, laying his double barrel across his lap. He might have eased up, but he’s still tense with vigilant suspicion. Marge rummages through the kitchen before bringing slices of whatever had been cooling.

  “No,” Bill protests.

  Marge ignores him, handing me a piece of bread. “It’s not real bananas, just flavoring, but tastes the same.”

  I glance down at the treasure in my hand. Banana bread is gold in my opinion. I should get a private room for this experience. “Thanks,” I manage with my rough voice.

  “Don’t get used to it.” Bill glares at us. This whole situation is familiar, and it makes me sad to see them closing themselves off.

  “We won’t over stay our welcome,” I assure him. “But you seem like you might know something about Mago.” I try to be nonchalant, but I can’t let his flash of recognition from earlier go.

  “I don’t care to know anything about him. He keeps to himself with those things walking around with him.” He shifts, but claps his hands to cover up any nervousness. “Hurry up, you need to leave.”

  I glance sideways to Reece as he chews. He shrugs as if content with only getting a piece of faux-banana bread. Reece might get angry, but I go out on a limb because I’m sure to be right. One minute he tells us to sit and the next wants us to leave. “I know to an extent you’re happy to see us. You don’t have to live here in hiding. There’s a community. With people, some are close to your age. Livestock and fresh produce—”

  “Kan,” Reece starts as Marge gasps in excitement.

  Bill stands up, gripping his shotgun. “Get your stuff and get out.” Tension thickens in the room as Reece and I comply, and I drop my banana bread in our haste.

  “But Bill!”

  “Shut up, Marge.”

  Tears well in her eyes as the hope she just experienced drains. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. Bill swings the door open. Reece hands me my Bersa pistols and machete. I follow him, but turn to look at them one more time. “West side of Nashville—”

  “He’s in the swamps!” Bill roars, slamming the door in my face. Great. That doesn’t really tell me much.

  When I turn around, Reece peers up at me from a few steps down. His bushy eyebrows are visible even in the dark stairway.

  “What?”

  “You had to ruin our banana bread gig, didn’t you?” We laugh, and if he’s joking around then being
mad at my big mouth is far from his mind.

  *

  Reece and I decide to check out the map and head to the swamps tomorrow. I’m not sure what to make of Bill and Marge just yet. I’m sad for them, but seeing them together at such an advanced age, especially in times like now, makes me feel something I can’t quite place.

  We head to this old apartment in a bed and breakfast. We stay here because we can see out the windows and have a good view of the street in front and the back alley. It’s spacious with Fleur de Lis patterned wallpaper. Dust covers every surface, including the light blue, lace curtains.

  I open an old bag of white cheddar popcorn, going into the bathroom to change my shirt.

  Looking at myself in the mirror, my hair’s a tangled mess. My eyes are no longer swollen, but are still purple, with cheeks to match. Sometimes it still hurts to bend over from the damage done to my abdomen, which is turning a purple-yellowish color. My neck is the worst. It is uncomfortable to swallow and of course, my voice pipes are suffering. Being strangled, beaten, and raped will do this to a person. Considering myself lucky I’m still alive, I put the sunglasses and a zippered hoodie on, raising the hood.

  Reece scoffs but it hints at laughter. A beer gut pokes out of the vest he sports without a shirt, because of the warm weather. Not that the cold would stop him. His blue jeans are full of holes, falling over his black biker boots.

  I smirk as he hands me some water. Gulping it, I stride out to the balcony beyond the kitschy French-decorated sitting room.

  We’ve picked up more weapons and ammunition along the way. I liked the Bersa pistols I had before, so I opted to stick with them. A brand new pack replaces my old battered one that the base confiscated. A lot of other supplies and goodies rest in a pile in the corner of the apartment.