(Alaskan Undead Apocalypse 05) Unwilling Read online

  A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

  ISBN: 978-1-68261-873-8

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-874-5

  Unwilling:

  Alaskan Undead Apocalypse Book V

  © 2019 by Sean Schubert

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art by Cody Corcoran

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Permuted Press, LLC

  New York • Nashville

  permutedpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Day 1

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 2

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Day 2

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Day 3

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  day 1

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  “Sir. On our approach.”

  The sleek jet, a Gulfstream G650, a graceful bird of metal and glass, bounced slightly as the pilot, Major Tom Handlin, emerged through the doorway heading back into the cockpit. Bracing himself against the wall, the older man made a grand gesture of holding his breath impatiently, like a weary father might make to a child. He tried his best to contain the disgusted sigh before it escaped but failed miserably which made it all the more loud. He was finding it increasingly difficult to exercise any patience with this “by the numbers” kid sitting in the co-pilot chair.

  Handlin had too many years behind the stick to find himself with such a greenhorn for a copilot. Sure, Handlin understood that things were…different now. It wasn’t as simple as requesting a replacement or a new assignment. The world…his world had been forever changed by recent events that were still unfolding in very dramatic and tragic fashion. No one knew for sure how bad it was going to get or if the nightmare would ever end.

  Perceived reality had been stretched to the breaking point close to a year ago when, in Anchorage, Alaska, a little boy with a mysterious bite sickened precipitously and then died despite the best efforts of the medical staff at Providence Hospital. Something in the bite, a malevolent organism with ill intent, invaded the child corpse’s brain and reinvested life into his limbs. He rose with violence in his veins and unquenchable hunger in his stomach. Biting and clawing, the child monster attacked those around him, spreading the terror with each victim. Of course, all Handlin and everyone else in the world knew was that the undead plague had originated in Anchorage and were ignorant of the intimate details concerning the boy. The nightmare and its reach stretched from that morning, to days and then weeks and months. Seasons passed and still the storm raged.

  Most of the Western Hemisphere was swept with the torrent, entire cities falling prey to the growing undead conflagration, which continued to spread unabated until natural geography finally interrupted the tide. Only tall mountains, wide rivers, or yawning canyons seemed capable of stopping the onslaught.

  Now, Handlin found most of his flights were often over lands completely infested with the unspeakable vermin. The world was different, more harsh and less forgiving of mistakes. He understood the potential consequences of his every decision, and also understood the challenges and limitations imposed on Central Command which had replaced the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Despite those hurdles, he couldn’t help but wonder why they were unable to assign a flight officer with more experience for this mission. What if something were to go wrong? He needed someone on whom he could count in a pinch.

  He wasn’t a fool, that much was true, and understood that the options available to those making the decisions were limited. Even keeping that in mind, he couldn’t help but feel he had been let down by the machine, the military, that he had served for most of his adult life. He couldn’t deny the resentment he felt toward his current assignment, but, like the good soldier he was, he committed himself to getting it done properly.

  Disappointed at having lost his balance in front of the kid, Handlin was nonetheless able to swallow the comment that nearly escaped and instead said, “Thank you. How we doin’?” It was a question to which he already knew the answer. They were doing fine, were on course, and approaching their destination. This bird, one of the newest in the industry, could practically fly and land itself. It was an amazing machine; an aviator’s dream, really.

  “Steady and smooth. Well…except just now. Sorry about that.” The younger man adjusted slightly in his chair and turned back toward the front. “Slowing for our approach. Slight wind coming in from the west but nothing to worry about. I started us through landing procedures.”

  Sitting down heavily into the tight space allotted to the pilot, Handlin said, “Okay. Let’s take her in.” Into the radio, he said, “Anchorage Tower. This is flight 77 out of Chicago. Requesting permission to land.”

  The copilot, who scarcely looked over at Handlin as the older man lowered himself into his seat, shifted slightly in his own perch so that he could hide the far side of his face but still cast a curious eye toward the pilot. The younger man couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about his face these days. He sported a scar, stretching from his eye to his neck, which still appeared pink and fresh as it slowly healed. It had been a ghastly wound and nearly claimed his life, but he had recovered and now sat next to a man who was eit
her totally insane or had a horrible sense of humor.

  Smiling, Handlin said, “Just kidding. You should really try to lighten up a bit, kid.”

  Humor then. It was the copilot’s turn to air his disdain. While Major Handlin had spent time aboard an aircraft carrier in the Pacific during the first desperate weeks of the undead deluge, he, Flight Officer-in-Training Terrence “Terry” Cavuto, had been on the ground, spinning in the torrent with all the control of a leaf caught in a tornado. He’d stared into the violent maelstrom from the edge of the precipice and then had been pushed headfirst into the thick of it.

  He forced a chuckle but barely cracked a smile, betraying his sentiment. Neither man liked the other, but they were both committed to doing the job; perhaps for different reasons but commitment was commitment.

  Handlin’s smile growing despite Cavuto’s response, he keyed his microphone into the passenger cabin and announced in his best captain voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re on our approach to Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport. Please return to your seats and buckle your seatbelts in preparation for landing. And thank you for flying the zombie-free skies.”

  He turned off his mike and looked full at Cavuto, flashing his smile at the younger man as if it were a weapon. Before the older pilot could speak though, Cavuto turned in his seat to face the man. He wasn’t intimidated by the senior pilot’s manner or his words and was suddenly thankful for the sickening scar on his face. It was enough to end the exchange and the two men became all business again.

  Handlin said to the window in front of him, “Okay. I got this.”

  The jet skipped across another patch of rough air, shaking everyone slightly and hurrying them to their seats. Handlin shared another menacing smile with Cavuto as the cabin shook slightly. “Hold on.”

  Chapter 2

  Preceded by a resounding whine from its engines, the jet, like a prehistoric bird, banked gracefully and slowed as it descended back to the earth. The mechanical screech split the early morning, echoing and bouncing across the open fields surrounding the Anchorage International Airport and into the nearby neighborhoods.

  Nary a soul was at the airport to respond. Whatever had happened close to a year ago had long since faded, its grisly actors having moved on to other environs. The once bustling airport was a ghost town unto itself; nothing stirred…at first.

  The infection which transformed humans and their brains into undead cannibals affected other species differently. The organism, for instance, did not kill and reanimate dogs, cats, or other mammals into death machines. Instead, animals unlucky enough or unwise enough to come into contact with and, most typically, ingest any infected tissue became sick. The illness’ high fever and neural shocks twisted infected animals into ultra-aggressive, erratic predators.

  Unfortunately, the same was true for fowl. From a field north of their runway, something dark fluttered in the tall grass. At first, the subtle movement was barely worth noticing. Then suddenly, an unkindness of ravens as black as darkest night rose into the air. Hundreds of birds took to flight, forming a nightmare cloud that drove toward the sound of the aircraft.

  The angle from which the birds approached the jet all but obscured them from view until it was too late to do anything about it. The furious fowl threw themselves at the jet with utter abandon, attacking the fuselage, the wings, the nose, and finally the engines.

  With a tremendous bark, the turbines protested and belched trailing contrails of dark, gray smoke. Pitching forward violently, the aircraft’s descent was abruptly too steep. The jet’s sudden change in velocity and balance forced it into an uncontrolled slide until it finally rolled over and started to spin. The large, metal bird screeched in pain as it slowly came apart mid-flight.

  As the jet impacted with the tarmac and continued its violent roll, the aircraft was dismantled piece by piece like a primeval Roc portioned into servings. Its wings departed first, separated from their body and flung up and out away from the still-spinning body. The unspent fuel, stored in the wings, exploded in the fields to either side of this section of runway. The fire, black and yellow with rage, rose like an angry storm, the explosions lending a thunderous voice to the fiery tempest. The tail and a sizeable section of the bird’s waist were next to crack and break free, pitching end over end and spreading debris in every direction.

  Miraculously, a large piece of the jet’s fuselage rolled and skidded to a stop in the soft soil and grass of the field. Although draped in a thick veil of dark smoke, the section came to rest upright and relatively intact.

  In its death throes, the dismembered and decapitated body sparkled and ticked with waning residual power. Following the deafening roar of the crash, the silence that followed seemed just as immense and stunning. For several long seconds, nothing inside the shattered aircraft moved, as if nothing survived. But, really, how could anything or anyone be expected to survive such destruction?

  Chapter 3

  Anchorage’s streets appeared to be empty…deserted. There were no cars speeding to beat the next traffic signal, no buses ferrying people to their next destination, and no pedestrians moving from shop to shop and door to door. The only thing that seemed to show any signs of life was a tan-colored plastic shopping bag.

  A relic of the world lost, the nearly translucent grocery bag caught hold of an inviting breeze and fluttered aimlessly through the silent streets. It lifted itself along its path, finding anima in the cool air blowing in from the rising tide of the Cook Inlet. Dancing in front of imposing department stores, small gift shops, the still new museum, and other impressive structures, the small brownish sack was snagged by an unruly branch on one of the many trees lining wide Fifth Avenue.

  The tree’s woody claw clung tightly to its quarry as the next breeze threatened to free it from the trap. Flapping and protesting with its crackling, plastic voice, the bag caught enough wind in its billowy waist to lift it from the snare and continue its trek.

  Embracing its chaotic trip, the bag shifted between crawling slowly along the sidewalk to rising up and flying confidently at treetop level. With freedom seemingly at its plastic fingertips, the sack once again caught itself on something that preempted its flight.

  The bag’s captor appeared to be a statue, weathered and granite gray. It was the likeness of a man, though his features appeared to be tortured and far from human. Stretched across the figure’s frame were tattered shreds of cloth stitched together by a few, stubborn threads. The cloth, not horribly different in color or texture than the statue, seemed oddly at home hanging from the lifeless, gray body.

  The bag fluttered and raged but it seemed as if it was inescapably stuck until something happened. From overhead, a high-pitched, mechanical wail pierced the quiet, summer air with its shrill voice. With that prompt, the gray statue shuddered slightly as if it had been struck by a tiny tremor and then its eyes opened. Murky and sad, the eyes lacked clearly defined irises. Instead, they were dull and milky throughout, though behind them a growing tempest raged. Then, with all the flexibility of stone, the statue began to move and, in so doing, the bag once again found its freedom. It scurried away as if afraid only to find itself trying to navigate a decaying forest of similar living effigies.

  Reawakened from a cold slumber, a malevolent consciousness, driven by an ancient, forgotten infection, emerged slowly from the hibernation into which it had fallen several months prior. Acting on the stimulus of sound, the ravenous infection sent impulses into long-dormant limbs. Eyes, seemingly swelling with dark intent, opened and looked skyward. Tipping their heads to the heavens as they searched for the sound’s source, legions of decaying corpses, their skin stretched tightly over calcified and brittle bones, began to buzz. Slight at first, the vibration built and swelled until what appeared to be a single, collective spasmodic tick clutched the horde, sweeping through the crowds like a shared seizure. An entire city’s population of the living dead, a horrifi
c affront to all things natural, slowly shifted on its feet and then began to shuffle toward the airport.

  Moving slowly, inexorably toward the plume of dark smoke in the west, they neared their destination step by labored step, driven mad with hunger by the infection. Their veins boiled with electrified rage.

  Chapter 4

  Though only seconds, the time that passed following the jet’s violent impact and when the intact remnants of the aircraft’s body came to rest felt like an eternity. Light, dark, and then light again over and over as the jet came apart and assailed with a sound so oppressive it seemed to possess physical depth, it was a sensory assault that left the handful of survivors stunned and, in some cases, unconscious.

  Mechanical ticks, the jet’s final heartbeats, rattled off a dying rhythm like a somber drum roll at a funeral.

  At first, no one moved. Not a one of them had ever been in or survived a plane crash. Completely new, it was hard for any of them to know how to feel. Not many had their wits about them and those that did were having an exceptionally difficult time trying to wrap their heads around what had happened.

  There was no warning. One moment they were descending toward an uneventful landing, and the next they found themselves rolling along the runway. It all had happened so quickly it was hard to summon any cogent memories from the chaos of emotions, sights, and sounds.

  There had been sixteen people in the passenger portion of the jet, eight of which were trained soldiers and the other eight technicians. To be more precise, the eight technicians were scientific and medical staff dispatched to Anchorage to collect data about the opening outset of the outbreak, which was believed to be where the insanity had begun. They had been tasked to determine the plague’s cause. Once that was known, then maybe.… Well, no one was sure how to use that information yet; but until they knew more about its origins, the infection could never be stopped, only contained.