Dead America The Third Week (Book 4): Dead America, Miami Read online

  DEAD AMERICA: THE THIRD WEEK

  BOOK 4: MIAMI

  BY DEREK SLATON

  © 2020

  CHAPTER ONE

  Day Zero +17

  The sun pierced through the crack in the blinds, shining over Kenny’s face. He stretched, muscles sliding beneath his dark skin. He groaned, covering his face with his pillow to avoid getting out of bed. But the battle was short-lived as the diamond-encrusted custom made watch on his nightstand bleated its loud alarm.

  The constant high-pitched beeping annoyed him enough that he slithered out from under his pillow and rolled over to grab the blue and black watch. He fumbled with it before finally turning it off.

  “Come on, Kenny,” he muttered to himself, “get your ass outta bed. Games may not be being played, but that don’t mean you can slack off on your schedule.”

  He set the watch back down on his nightstand and pulled himself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. After a moment, he finally shook the fog from his head and stood up, wandering over to the window. He peeked outside, watching the sun just coming up over the ocean. From his 27th floor penthouse, the South Beach view was more spectacular than most would have.

  This was a morning ritual for Kenny, a reminder that all of the hard work and sacrifice he’d made over the year had paid off. He took a deep breath, savoring the moment, and then headed out of the bedroom. He walked past the wall of photographs, Kenjuan “Kenny” Morris in action on the football field. He walked past the shelves of awards he’d won, and even more photos of him receiving those awards. He walked past the giant sixteen-by-twenty framed poster of him shaking hands with the pro football commissioner when he was first drafted.

  He strolled into the kitchen and opened up the fridge, greeted with a cool blast of air as he reached in to pull out some ingredients. He spent a few extra seconds enjoying the cold sensation on his warm skin, extra thankful he’d upgraded to solar power when he’d bought his kingdom in the sky.

  He set some eggs, onions, mushrooms, and spinach on the counter, and then placed his seasoned cast-iron skillet on the stove to warm up. He flipped on the coffee maker and the grinder, setting it to brew half a pot for him. While coffee hadn’t ever been on the morning menu during football season, he’d decided to make an exception recently considering that it was a luxury that would soon be gone for a while.

  Plus, he felt that it would have been a crime against humanity to let his hand-picked Kona roast blend coffee go to waste.

  He hummed to himself as he whisked up an omelette, and then slid it out of the pan onto a plate. He picked up the food and grabbed a steaming mug of coffee, and then headed into the living room. He flopped down on the couch and picked up the remote for the TV, flicking it on.

  The screen went blue, as there wasn’t any signal for it to pick up—hadn’t been for a while. He used the menu buttons to access the hard drive connected to the smart TV.

  “Okay, so what are we watching today?” he asked brightly, flicking through several icons on the screen. He chuckled as the cursor highlighted a file called Kenjuan ‘Kenny’ Morris: Senior Highlights. “Sure, why not? Been a while since I’ve revisited the good ole days.”

  He hit play and settled in, pulling the liftable top of the coffee table so that his breakfast raised up enough for him to comfortably access his food.

  A flashy intro scrawled across the screen, and a young Kenny Morris flexed in front of the camera, a wide grin on his face as jumping text bounced around, highlighting his name and position. Next was gameplay footage, showing him guarding a receiver that towered over even his six-foot-one frame as he ran a route. He was able to leap up for a jump ball, undercutting the receiver and intercepting the ball before landing hard on his back.

  Kenny winced. “Yeah, that was pretty, but damn that one left a mark,” he said in between bites of his delicious omelette.

  He watched about ten or so minutes of watching play after play of his young highlights of interceptions, deflecting passes, and hitting players so hard they flew off their feet and to the turf. He finished his food and pushed the coffee table back down, sitting back with his hot mug to watch the final play—his personal favorite.

  It was the conference title game, when he was pressed into punt return duty due to an injury to the regular guy. He caught the ball at his own twenty-yard line and juked to the left to make the first man miss. From there, it was a downhill run through the defenders, clearly underestimating how fast he could move. One final head fake to the kicker, and he made it in for a touchdown to seal the victory for his team. As he threw his arms up in excitement and his team jumped all over him in celebration, the flashy words came back onto the screen, bringing the video to a close.

  “Man, can’t believe I was so good, so young,” he said, and took a long sip of coffee. “Lucky for me, I’ve gotten better with age.” He toasted himself and chuckled, and then grabbed his dirty dishes to go back to the kitchen. He chugged the last of his coffee and gave the dishes a quick wash, filling the drying rack. He wiped out the cast-iron pan, making sure to oil it back up before hanging it back up on the wall.

  He cracked his neck. “All right,” he declared to his empty apartment. “Time to get down to business.”

  He walked to the other end of his four-thousand square foot apartment and into his own personal gym. It wasn’t a massive setup, just a few machines and a full rack of free weights, but it was perfect for what he needed it for. He headed over to the speaker on the wall, flicking through the touchscreen to find a song he wanted.

  The mirrors along the wall rumbled with the deep base, and he grinned at himself in the vibrating glass before heading over to the bench. He lifted some weights, losing himself in the burn and the music, and then went for a run on the treadmill. After working up a decent sweat, he did some curls in front of the mirror, and then set the weight he was using on the padded floor, flexing and letting out a deep scream to pump himself up.

  After his intense workout, he headed to the ensuite for a hot shower, which was another perk of solar power in the apocalypse. However, after seven minutes of standing under the searing hot bliss, his watch bleated its annoyingly loud alarm.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, time to get out,” he muttered, and shut off the water.

  He dried off and rummaged through his dresser, selecting a pair of loose fitting jeans and a tight t-shirt that hugged his rippling muscles. He couldn’t help but check himself out in the mirror on the way by.

  “Looking good, Kenny,” he complimented his reflection. “Looking good. Guess we should go say hi to the neighbors.”

  He wandered down the hallway and wrapped his hand around the door to the spare bedroom, taking a deep breath before opening it.

  Inside was a disaster area. It was a far cry from the immaculate condition of the rest of his penthouse. The bed had been dismantled and shoved against the wall, all of the furniture end-over-end and moved off to the side. In the very middle of the room sat a king-sized mattress, on the floor, surrounded by massive chunks of busted concrete.

  Kenny headed over, wrapping his hands around the handles on the side of the mattress, and dragged it to the side, revealing a three-foot wide hole in the floor. Puffs of concrete dust flew up as he dropped the mattress to the side, and he looked down through the gaping maw of wood and concrete into the downstairs apartment.

  Within seconds of the noise, two zombies appeared below. There was an older male missing an ear, wearing a blood-soaked housecoat. The other had been a younger buxom blonde, with giant rotting tits and a bloody mouth.

  “Morning Jerry, Karen,” K
enny greeted brightly. “Hope y’all are doing okay on this lovely day.”

  They groaned hungrily, reaching up with their sickly-grey fingers. Luckily there was a ten-foot ceiling, not to mention the additional two feet of building material in the floor. But their brains weren’t firing anymore—their only concern was that there was a fresh piece of meat dangling just out of their reach.

  “Are you ready for our morning ritual?” Kenny asked, as they continued to moan and reach for him. “Thought so.”

  He cocked his head, and studied a massive chunk of concrete as long as his arm. He pursed his lips, thinking for a moment.

  “Nah, that’s too big for you guys,” he mused. “I can get two outta this.” He headed over to the wall where a busted-up nightstand sat on its side, and picked up the large sledgehammer beside it.

  He lined up a shot, and then brought it down hard on the center of the rock. It shattered into two, leaving gravel and dust between with a magnificent crack. He gently set the hammer off to the side, and picked up one of the boulders.

  “Man, I wish I had paid more attention when Aaron was giving me some throwing tips,” he grunted as he stood up.

  He reeled back, and then threw the rock down, aiming at Karen’s head. He missed badly, only catching her shoulder. The zombified woman dipped a little to one side, but didn’t stop her frantic moaning for a second.

  “Okay, come on Kenny, you can do better than that,” he muttered to himself, and picked up the other rock.

  He lined up his shot as carefully as he could, and then threw, this one smacking Jerry square in the face. There was an audible crunch as the zombie’s nose shattered, and Kenny winced at the sound. He leaned over the edge, but the creature was still alive, despite his nose hanging from his face like a hunk of ground beef on a string.

  “All right, all right, good game, y’all,” Kenny said with a sigh. “I’ll get in a kill shot one of these days. Y’all have a good morning.”

  He dragged the mattress back over the hole, muffling the hungry groans of the zombies below. It was partially a sound barrier, but also a failsafe in case the power went out and he happened to wander in there in the dark. He wasn’t expecting to live forever, but he was damned if he wanted to go out falling through the floor.

  He checked his watch, now securely on his wrist. Nine o’clock, he thought, I got a little time before my calls.

  He headed out of the spare room, securing the door before heading out to his spacious patio. Most of the wall was made of iron bars, but on the one end he’d had a glass wall installed so he could sit and watch the beach below. He could also see the South Pointe Pier, only fifteen blocks away.

  He took a seat in front of the wall on a pillow he’d left there a few days before, and stretched out his legs. He focused on the horizon first, blocking out everything but the sky and water, allowing himself to relax. He started with the muscles in his toes, focusing on them growing softer, soothing. He worked his brain up his calves, relaxing every part of his body in this way until he reached his head, and closed his eyes, taking a deep, nourishing breath.

  Feeling centered and comfortable, glad to have the relief from the stress constantly thrumming beneath the surface of his normality, he leaned forward to look at the beach.

  On a normal weekday morning, he would have been able to see the white sand, only a few people dotted along the coast, getting ready to start their day. Now, however, there were so many zombies packed down there that he was lucky to see even glimpses of the beautiful sand here or there.

  Man, you know it’s bad when you’re longing for the Spring Break crowds, he thought bitterly. Not only were they smaller and more polite, but when a woman in a crop top walked by you’d want to take notice rather than hold your breakfast down.

  He sighed and sat back on his pillow again, looking to the south towards the pier. Every surface of land was just a never-ending sea of ghouls, stretching as far as his eyes could see. He took another deep breath, this one far less relaxing. He could only escape reality for so long before it came back to smack him in the face.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kenny walked into his office, a spacious room adorned with dark walnut bookcases and a large L-shaped desk. Against one wall was another awards case, holding trophies all the way back to his first pee-wee football participation trophy from when he was just nine years old.

  On his large desk, where a computer would normally sit, was a heavy-duty ancient piece of technology—a ham radio. It was a vintage World War II era monstrosity that took up the entire corner portion of the desk. He’d had it refurbished years back when he got his first pro-football paycheck. In addition to the original structure, he’d updated the non-working portion with modern digital components. Most would have tossed such an old machine, but it had been Kenny’s grandfather’s, who had cherished it dearly. It was a family heirloom, and he’d been happy to restore it to its former glory.

  Of course, once the apocalypse happened, he’d been extra glad he’d taken the time to honor dear old grandpa.

  Kenny sat down with a fresh bottle of cold water, and flicked on the machine. The lights on the dial illuminated, showing him his frequencies. Next to it on the desk sat a clipboard with a list of names and frequencies running ten long, six of them crossed out.

  He ran his finger along the first name, Gerald, and dialed in the long string of numbers into the machine. He grabbed the microphone and leaned back in his seat.

  “Hey Gerald, you there, man?” he asked brightly. “It’s Kenny down here in South Beach.” He took a long swig of his water and waited. There was no reply. He sighed and hit the button again. “Gerald, come on, man, it’s been three days. Don’t do your boy Kenny like that.”

  He waited again for a long minute, and finally shook his head. Three days of nothing from Gerald. That wasn’t a good sign, and though he was reluctant to let go, he knew deep down that it was too late. He picked up his pen and crossed out Gerald’s name. Only three left.

  “Let’s see who’s next.” He drew his finger down the list, stopping on Arnold. He dialed in that frequency, and then sat back in his chair again. “Yo, Arnold, it’s Kenny, you there, bro?”

  In less than a minute, the line came to life. “Hey Kenny, how’s my South Beach brother doing?” His voice was raspy and aged, sounding like a man that had spent years smoking two packs a day.

  “Man, you know, just soaking up them rays, hoping for a pretty girl to walk on by,” Kenny replied. Speaking to another human being made some of the tight muscles in his neck relax, and he let out a sigh of relief. He often spoke to himself just to hear a voice, but of course it wasn’t the same as carrying on a real conversation.

  “Oh yeah?” Arnold replied, amusement lacing his tone. “How’s that working out?”

  Kenny laughed. “I’m gonna level with you man, not too well.” He grinned, and took another swig of water. “So how’s my Wisconsin brother doing?”

  “It’s cold as shit up here, man,” Arnold replied. “Normally I’d be complaining, but it seems to slow these suckers down another notch. Don’t do much good if there’s a hundred of them, but smaller groups it really helps.”

  Kenny cocked his head. “In that case, send some of that snow my way.”

  “I”ll get right on that, brother,” Arnold replied, and then someone mumbled something far off in the background. He spoke back, muffled, as if his hand were over the microphone. “Sorry about that,” he said when he came back. “Carol and the kids send their love to you.”

  “Well, you send my love right back at ‘em,” Kenny said with a smile. “They hanging in there?”

  The other man sighed. “As good as can be expected given the circumstances,” he admitted. “Luckily we’ve got a fenced-in portion of the yard, so the kids can at least go outside and build a snowman.”

  Kenny imagined that, a vision of two young kids piling up giant balls of snow on one another, jamming a carrot nose in the center of the top and plonking a hat on top
. Lazy big snowflakes falling from the sky, twinkling in the sun. It would have been a relaxing, beautiful scene, except he couldn’t help but imagine a horde of zombies on the other side of the fence, reaching for the children with bloody fingers.

  “You have ‘em build one for me, too,” he said, and then took a deep breath. “Hey, are Carol and the kids out of the room?”

  “Yeah, it’s just us, man,” Arnold said.

  Kenny ran a hand over his head. “You heard from Gerald lately?”

  There was a long pause. “Been three days for me,” came the reply. “Tried him every few hours over the last couple. Just… nothing.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Kenny said, resting his forehead on his hand. “He was always a lot of fun to chat up.”

  Arnold let out a noise of approval. “Yeah,” he said, “surprisingly upbeat for how close to New York City he was.”

  “What was he, like, thirty miles north or something?” Kenny mused.

  “Yeah, in a survivalist compound, or so he claimed,” Arnold confirmed.

  Kenny sighed again. “Hopefully he’s just having radio issues.” He didn’t believe it. But one had to have hope in these times, didn’t they? He didn’t think Arnold believed it either, but at least he’d put it out there. However slim a chance it might have been.

  “One can hope, my man,” his friend replied. “One can hope.”

  They sat in silence for a time, a somber moment. All of a sudden the digital panel of the radio began to blink, and Kenny startled.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  Arnold immediately asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Kenny replied, shaking his head. “Just… my scanner picked up a broadcast.”

  The other man let out a whoop of excitement. “Oh man, that’s awesome! Where’s this one coming from?”

  Kenny checked the frequency and then studied the chart he had on the other side of the machine. His brow furrowed. “It’s short range,” he said.

  There was a short moment of silence as Arnold digested that. “Well hell, man, put my ass on hold,” he declared. “You may have a new friend.”