Surviving the Dead (Novel): The Hellbreakers

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE HELLBREAKERS: A SURVIVING THE DEAD NOVEL Copyright © 2018 by James N. Cook. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  FIRST EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Epub Edition © September 2018

  Table of Contents:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE HELLBREAKERS

  A Surviving the Dead Novel

  By:

  James N. Cook

  Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.

  -Leo Tolstoy

  A champion is someone who gets up when he can’t.

  -Jack Dempsey

  Author’s Note:

  This story takes place one year after the events of Storm of Ghosts: Surviving the Dead Volume 8. The saga will continue in 2019 in War Without End: Surviving the Dead Volume 9.

  The Hellbreakers is the beginning of a new storyline that intertwines with the bestselling original series so many of you have enjoyed over the last seven years. And if you are new to the series, I sincerely hope you decide to join us on the journey. You do not need to have read the other novels to follow this one. As I said, much like the main character herein, it stands alone.

  In the meantime, I hope you have as much fun reading this adventure as I did writing it.

  Thank you.

  James N. Cook

  Cathedral City, California

  9/30/2018

  ONE

  I woke up to the sound of feet scraping on dry dirt.

  My heart pounded as I sat up and shook my head to clear the fog of bad dreams. The thin sheet covering me fell away and I felt a chill in the air on my bare skin. The axe was in my hand before I realized I had reached for it. I raised it to port arms, gripped the smooth wooden handle, and sat and waited, listening.

  The noise continued. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Step, scrape. Step, scrape. Just one set of feet. Didn’t mean there weren’t more nearby. Best to do this quietly.

  I stood and crept on my toes to the door of the small cabin. The floor was vinyl over concrete, so there were no boards to creak. At the door, I put my ear to the wood and listened. Nothing. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. I stepped outside into the desert night.

  A dark, star-flecked sky hung overhead, the purple and white of the Milky Way standing out in stark contrast to the blackness of the universe. All was quiet except for the stepping and scraping coming from the back of the cabin. There were other cabins nearby, campground vacation rentals until a few years ago. Now they stood empty, slowly succumbing to the weight of time, neglect, and the searing heat of the Arizona sun.

  If I moved, the creature would hear the crunch of dirt and rocks underfoot, so I waited and listened. The step-scrape was moving westward.

  Do this quick.

  Circling around the cabin only took a few seconds at a run. At the back corner I saw the source of the footsteps. A figure walked ahead of me, man-shaped and tall. There were no shoes on the feet and what was left of the clothing would not have covered a child. No question about what it was. I caught up to it just as it turned around and swung the axe before it could moan. The ghoul’s skull split like cordwood and a splatter of reddish black gore hit the cabin wall.

  Have to clean that up in the morning.

  The axe hit at a good angle, so it slid free easily when the creature fell. I turned and looked around. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and there was a half-moon out. Nothing moved. No sound. A breeze picked up and gently rustled the sage and creosote in the surrounding emptiness.

  I was alone. I let the axe hang from one hand and took a deep breath of dry air. It had been a long while since any infected had come around. I wondered what had brought it out this way.

  Probably chasing a rabbit or something.

  It was surprising there weren’t more. They usually travelled in hordes. Not that I was complaining.

  The handle of the water pump twenty feet from my cabin was still warm from the heat of the day. I had not been asleep for long; it was still early evening. I pumped the handle and washed the gore from my axe. That done, I wiped the steel head with rubbing alcohol, put the square of cloth in a trash bin next to the door, and went back to bed.

  No more ghouls bothered me that night.

  TWO

  The axe was unlike any other I had seen.

  Damascus steel blade, design like a scaled-up pipe tomahawk, lightweight, strong, and sharp as a serpent’s tooth. A stubby, rectangular hammer jutted from the back end and connected to a collar fitted around the haft. The haft itself was some kind of hardwood, ash or hickory maybe, treated with mineral oil and stained dark brown like walnut. I found it mounted above the fireplace in a house in western Arizona, and it had been with me ever since. Rare was the instance I let it out of arm’s reach.

  I sat outside in the early morning on a section of log that served as a stool and looked over the cleaning job I’d done the night before. Just to be safe, I wiped the axe head with bleach, putting special emphasis on the cutting edge. The last thing I needed was to nick myself and contract the disease that turns living people into walking nightmares.

  That done, I slung the axe on a harness made from thin nylon rope. The axe head hung down near my hips, the haft jutting over my shoulder. I could have it in hand in less than a second; long practice had made sure of that.

  Glancing through the door, I let my eyes rest on the rifle I had found in the same house as the axe. It was an AR-15 of custom design. My knowledge of guns is not encyclopedic, but I knew enough to identify that much. A bandolier sat next to it that held six spare magazines, all fully loaded.

  I didn’t fire the weapon very often. It was there for emergencies and to bring down the occasional javelina or antelope. Other than that, I had little use for it. Too heavy, too bulky, and too loud. Loud is bad. Loud attracts ghouls. I don’t like ghouls. They force me to reevaluate which particular rung of the food chain I occupy, and the conclusions logic forces me to draw thereof are not comforting. Therefore, I prefer a good blade any day of the week. Blades are good. Blades are quiet. I like blades.

  With the axe clean I washed my hands under the water pump and went back inside. The cabin was a small rectangular affair with boarded-over windows. The floor space consisted of perhaps two hundred square feet. There was enough room for a bed, table, chair, and a composting toilet. The kitchen appliances I’d found when I had moved in were useless without electricity, so I ripped them out and built shelves in their place. It was from one of these shelves I took a few strips of dried m
eat and a can of peaches.

  While I ate, I stared at the supplies. If I was careful, I had maybe a week’s worth remaining. I did not like being that low on food.

  Motion caught my eye. I stopped chewing and glanced out the door. The motion turned out to be a tumbleweed. I let out a breath and took another bite.

  Need to go into town.

  I didn’t like it, but it was the truth. A man has to eat, and there was only one source of food for miles.

  Time for a trip to Phoenix.

  *****

  Unlike most cities during the Outbreak, Phoenix actually heeded the call to evacuate. Not completely, but the majority of people living in the city at the time had left, headed for various safe zones. Not long after, almost all of those so-called safe zones were overrun.

  Despite its relative isolation, the Outbreak had not spared Phoenix its wrath. The undead found the desert city the same as they found everywhere else. As a result, there were at least a couple of hundred thousand ravening abominations populating an area that had once been home to over one and a half million people.

  And I was about to walk right in.

  First I checked the mountain bike. The tires and rims were in good repair, the spokes and gears and brakes all in fine working condition. A little input from the tire pump and it was good to go.

  Next I gathered my equipment. I travelled light whenever I went to Phoenix. The axe stayed on my back, along with a water pack with two liters in it. Everything else went into the bicycle trailer. There was an empty duffel bag, six canteens of water, first aid kit, spare wheel for the bike, crowbar, bolt cutters, duct tape, emergency blanket, two trash bags, firefighting suit, motorcycle helmet, rubber boots, and a roll of toilet paper. Last was the rifle and extra ammo. I did not like bringing them along—the extra weight was cumbersome—but if things went bad I wanted the option to shoot my way out.

  Before I left, after a final equipment check, I opened a drawer and removed a .22 caliber Ruger pistol. I had found it a couple of years ago in a house in Phoenix. It had occupied a shoebox, along with two small boxes containing a thousand rounds of ammo between them. The shoebox had also held two spare magazines and a sound suppressor.

  I loaded a magazine into the Ruger, chambered a round, and screwed on the suppressor. The axe was my first line of defense, but if I faced more than one ghoul in close quarters, I wanted the Ruger close at hand.

  Okay. Time to get a move on.

  I mounted the bike and started pedaling.

  THREE

  Even though it was only nine in the morning, the temperature was already over ninety degrees.

  At least it’s a dry heat, I told myself. It did not help.

  A pair of wraparound sunglasses, a Foreign Legion cap with a neck flap, and a long-sleeve white shirt kept the worst of the sun off my skin. I pedaled eastward on Interstate 10, dodging the wrecks and abandoned vehicles and pointedly ignoring the remnants of a military convoy half a kilometer to the south.

  I had explored the convoy the first time I saw it. Several of the soldiers had been turned, but were in hibernation, awakening when they heard me coming. The axe couldn’t crack their Kevlar helmets, so I’d been forced to dispatch them with my rifle. A search of their vehicles had revealed numerous boxes of MRE’s, weapons of all sorts, and more ammo than I would likely ever need.

  I’d transported everything of value back to the campsite and stored it in the empty cabins. It had sat there ever since, trade items I would, in all likelihood, never get to trade.

  After a few miles I reached Sun Valley Parkway, which ran parallel to the Skyline and White Tank Mountain Regional Park. I turned left and began following the road northward. This was the really long section of the journey. After a straight shot to the north, Sun Valley Parkway would turn east again and run all the way into the Surprise/Sun City West section of the Phoenix metro area. That was my target destination. I had been raiding there for most of six years and had barely made a dent in the housing developments.

  I set an easy pace, not wanting to wear myself out. My endurance was good, always had been, but I knew better than to push too hard. The desert sun can be a real bastard if one becomes dehydrated.

  Something close to three hours after leaving the campsite I came within sight of western Phoenix. I was still perhaps a mile and a half away from the city. Time for a break.

  I kept my eyes to the right and eventually found what I was looking for—a ramshackle structure comprised of wooden struts with corrugated aluminum for a roof and walls. It looked like something out of a Tijuana slum, but it served its purpose.

  I stopped the bike in front and put down the kickstand. From the trailer I retrieved a canteen of water, some dried meat, and a can of spaghetti and meatballs that I would not have fed to a dog before the Outbreak. Today, however, I knew the contents of the can had sodium and carbs, two nutrients I would need badly in the next few hours.

  I ate my fill of the meat and spaghetti and drank the entire canteen of water. After that, I sat under the shade of the shack’s roof for an hour to let my meal digest and the water absorb into my tissues. Afterward, I drank more water from another canteen and then donned what I called my foraging uniform.

  The thing about the collapse of civilization and mass evacuations is that everything not essential to survival tends to get left behind. Such was the case with a firefighting suit I’d found inside a volunteer fire department not long after the Outbreak. Its previous owner had evidently been about my size because it fit very well. As did the tough, heavy boots that came with it. The uniform was thick, durable, and, most importantly, impervious to ghoul bites.

  I knew.

  I had been bitten many times wearing it.

  Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but I was still alive.

  I put on the suit, boots, and the motorcycle helmet. Last was a pair of thick leather firefighting gloves. Fully suited and pouring out sweat in the blazing heat, I climbed back on the bicycle and pedaled the rest of the way into town.

  *****

  The first time I came to Phoenix was for a fight.

  My career started in my hometown of Los Angeles, but after college I spent a few years in Albuquerque training at one of the premier fight camps in the world. The head instructors there, two of the most respected names in mixed martial arts, said I was championship material. So, on their encouragement, I started competing in local circuits all over the country. Most of my fights were on the west coast, but I did a few up north and back east as well.

  It did not take me long to make my mark on the scene. After eleven straight wins, all by submission, knockout, or TKO, my manager finally got a call from the Big Show. They wanted me on their undercard for an event in Phoenix. The pay wasn’t great, but I could not turn down the opportunity.

  It was harder than I expected. I was used to fighting in front of crowds, but there is a difference between a few hundred people packed into a small event center and competing in a major sports arena. For starters, the lights are bright as hell. If you’re on your back, they burn into your eyes making it difficult to focus on your opponent. Second, the audience is loud. Really loud, to the point it’s hard to hear your corner shouting instructions.

  Then there is the pressure. I never got nervous for any of my small fights while I was an up and comer. Back then, I was simply working toward a goal. But that night in Phoenix was the goal, and living up to it turned out to be far tougher than expected.

  The guy I fought was a veteran. Close to a title shot once but went on a losing streak and got relegated to the prelims. One more loss and he was looking at being ousted from the organization.

  The fucker fought dirty. He poked me in the eye twice and kneed me in the balls every chance he got. The referee took a point from him after repeated warnings.

  And that was just the first round.

  “Okay,” my corner man, Vincent, told me during the sixty second rest between the first and second rounds. “You got that round. Ref took a
point, so at worst we’re even up.”

  “My balls are killing me,” I replied.

  “Ignore it. How’s the eye?”

  “I can see okay.”

  “Good. Now listen, he’s already tired. His whole career he’s had problems with conditioning. He barely made weight for this fight, so you can bet he’s feeling the cut. When he gets tired, he tends to hold his hands low. That’s your opening. Attack low for the first couple of minutes, stuff the takedown, and get him focused on his legs. I’ll tell you when to attack the head. Use that big left kick of yours. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Remember, attack the legs, wait ‘til my order to go after the head.”

  “I said I got it.”

  The ref came over and ordered my corner men out of the ring. The second round was about to start.

  “No reason you can’t finish this guy right here,” Vinny said as he gathered the stool and spit bucket. “Make it happen.”

  I took a final sip of water before putting in my mouthpiece. Biting down on it, I looked across the cage at my opponent. He was taking big, deep breaths and trying to act like he wasn’t tired. I was not fooled. I had been fighting a good while by then, and I could tell by his body language that his conditioning was failing. I, on the other hand, had broken a nice sweat and felt loose.

  Push the pace. Make him work.

  The first round I’d tried backpedaling and counter-punching and, consequently, had spent most of the fight with my back against the cage fending off takedown attempts. This time I came out aggressive.

  My first attack was a flurry of straight punches. My opponent wisely backed off and circled out. I moved to my left, cutting off the cage and getting right back in his face. He saw what I was doing and tried to rush forward, but I caught him coming in with a vicious inside leg kick. The kick threw him off balance and rendered him wide open for the right cross I sent straight down the pipe. It caught him flush on the nose, bloodying it and sending him stumbling back into the cage. As he bounced off the fence, I fired a left kick that nailed him in the liver. Liver shots are bad news. The Vagus nerve travels through the liver, and when it gets hit hard, the signals it sends are disrupted, causing loss of breath and a sensation of paralysis—kind of like hitting the ulnar nerve in the elbow, or ‘funny bone’, but on a body-wide scale. My opponent circled away after I kicked him, but I could tell by the clenched jaw and blood draining from his face that he was hurt.