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  JUDGEMENT

  THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE ZOMBIE WAR CHRONICLES

  Book Three

  by

  ERIC A. SHELMAN

  Writing as

  Damon Novak

  JUDGEMENT

  The Final Chapter of the Zombie War Chronicles

  IS A WORK OF FICTION BY

  ERIC A. SHELMAN

  Writing as

  DAMON NOVAK

  All characters contained herein are fictional and all similarities to actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  No portion of this text may be copied or duplicated without author or publisher written permission, except for use in professional reviews.

  ©2019 Dolphin Moon Publishing

  DIGITAL VERSION

  Edited by Seven Editing

  Cover Art By Jeffrey Kosh

  FOREWORD

  Eric Shelman here.

  Some of you may recall I changed jobs around three years ago; my new boss at the time told me that if I focused 100% on his business and put everything else aside, we would see big success together, and in a few short years, I could really solidify my future. He was asking that I give my primary job my full attention.

  I was surprised that he saw my writing and selling novels as a side business, and he expressed his feelings to me that if I split my time between doing that and working for him, it would not be acceptable. He felt immersion in the work was necessary to make it happen. I do not believe in capitulation; I felt I owed him an immediate answer to his question as we sat and had breakfast in Tampa, Florida.

  “Do you want to work for me and just be an employee, or do you want to have the potential to make stupid money?”

  I thought about it. If I stopped writing for a few years, made such ridiculous money that I could retire, then picked it up again with all the time in the world to write, it would be worth it.

  I opted for stupid money. I agreed to put the writing down.

  And I really did – for a time. But my boss ran a very fluid business model that I did not fully understand when I agreed to his conditions. What we were doing at the time I made the agreement changed completely within a few short months – just as I was getting my arms around it.

  Then, it changed again. And again. I felt as though I was starting over all the time, changing roles repeatedly. I began to have my doubts as to whether we would ever settle on something I could take the time to get really good at.

  I realized I should have asked way more questions in the beginning. Now, keep in mind – it may have been my fault; I just didn’t understand that to him, whether the product was this or whether it was that didn’t matter. It’s the format, the method, the popularity, and hitting it hard. Boom! Boom! Onto the next. That’s a bit too tentative a lifestyle for an old dude like me.

  I was figuring that out. On top of that, when I wasn’t writing, I was depressed. I needed to write. It is in my blood. I was just not myself, and I could’ve easily grown bitter. I didn’t want that. So, in order to do my day job and keep my sanity, I created a pseudonym under which to write.

  Damon Novak was born.

  I created his background, I created his location, I created his vocation. I created a story about how I met Damon, how his submitted work intrigued me, and how I decided to publish his work as my first publishing projects for a writer other than myself. I created a lot of lies and a lot of BS to get that nom de plume set up, but I did it. I even had Damon Novak swag made – which was not without its clues.

  It’s way different than when Stephen King created Richard Bachman; he didn’t have to create a Facebook page, Twitter page, Instagram, all that crap. He just wrote the forewords, praised the author, released the books and people got to know Bachman, who was really good and a very similar writer to King!

  Unfortunately, in the world of social media, if Damon Novak had no presence, it would not have been believable at all.

  It’s a brand-new world and writing under pseudonyms is no longer as effortless as it once was – particularly for an indie. It requires you to lie to people you like. Damon even won Zombie Book of the Month Club with Onslaught: The Zombie War Chronicles – Vol. 1.

  Remember the ShelmaNovaKillinGhouls logo? Notice that Shelman and Novak are combined, making one name. I had mugs made. Wristbands. I used Ramona’s brother Allan as my “Damon.”

  Yes, that photograph is of Ramona Martine’s brother – not Damon Novak. The picture of him with his mom? lol … that’s his and Ramona’s mom.

  Who knew about this ruse? Unless you totally guessed, it was only Ramona Martine, James Dean, Sarah Dean, Laurie Lane and my family that knew, and some of them didn’t know immediately.

  The reason I’m abandoning Novak now is because after two years, I turned in my resignation; that life was not for me, and it took me a while to figure it out.

  Now I’m working for a nationwide company with great benefits and when I’m off work, I’m off work. I don’t need Damon anymore. I hope you didn’t get too attached to him. He’s a fraud!

  So – there you go. If you like Eric A. Shelman zombie books – you might like this Damon Novak trilogy – since it’s me. Thanks to everyone who kept my secret, and I promise never to do this again. You’re the best.

  I hope you enjoy the last of my Damon Novak books. It wraps the trilogy.

  And … the man.

  JUDGEMENT

  The Final Chapter of the Zombie War Chronicles

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lebanon, Kansas

  Lilly was getting tired of waiting. I get it. She’s good with a gun and the girl’s got gumption. I’d never seen her more up for a fight than right then.

  I think she had some crazy idea that when it was all over, we’d just head back down to Florida, re-open Baxter’s and spend our days in the swamp. She’d live with Danny, I’d hang with Georgie, and we’d be the new Honeymooners.

  Except with zombiegator tours.

  Hell, if things stayed like they were, I’d never go back there. The new undead alligators with the red eye shine were scary as hell. Far deadlier in their new, undead version than before, and they weren’t exactly kittens then.

  Now, if there was some way to reverse all this shit – and I didn’t think there was – that might change. But for now, I figured the chances were slim to none.

  As much as Lilly wanted to head out and find the Indian, I knew from looking at the group that had congregated with Micky Rode that it wasn’t time yet. Ragtag didn’t begin to cover it.

  It was still dark – getting close to dawn – and I lay on a cot in the corner of the gymnasium, blankets thrown over a clothesline and hanging down around me to provide a bit of privacy. I heard the low murmurs of conversation around me, people coughing. No gunfire for a couple of hours.

  Thank God for small favors.

  Since we’d arrived a week earlier, the Nacogdoche Tribe had helped to put some training procedures in place, and they’d also gone out and scavenged for a hundred miles or more for more guns. They were so effective at the lever-action .22s that I told them to get as many as they could find.

  They came back with 34 of them. Some were the Henry Golden Boy versions with the main panel engraved like a work of art. Others were the standard models, and they had some other miscellaneous brands.

  I picked Henry’s Evil Roy model. They had four of them. It had an oversized loop lever that seemed to fit a big guy like me perfectly, and the little rifle just felt good in my hands.

  I know, I know. It’s a .22. I scoffed at first, but once I saw those damned Indian kids knocking off zombies left and right with them, I knew it was more about skill than caliber. The ammo was in wide supply, too.

  You could hit dead on with this little rifle. Even in a pinch. Sure, I�
��d still carry a handgun with me for backup, but the back scabbard I tried on made me feel like a badass waiting for a fight.

  Which I kinda was. Or am. At least in my mind. I still consider Lilly the bigger badass.

  As for me sleeping in the gym, yeah, we could’ve left the school and found houses in town; that would’ve given us all the privacy we needed. I thought it was important to build a community of fighters. Sometimes that meant staying as a group, with everyone facing the same uncomfortable inconveniences.

  If I hadn’t learned it before, I sure enough learned it from our trip through the Gulf of Mexico.

  Facing adversity and dealing with difficult situations as a group tended to bring people together. It also revealed to everyone who you were – how you contributed, how you learned, and it gave people a chance to see how you improved over time.

  As much as folks around the world liked to see the USA as a country full of gun totin’ rednecks, I can tell you that if this group was any indication, most Americans hadn’t ever seen a gun in person, let alone fired one.

  So that’s why I’m stretched out on this cot, hidin’ behind this dangling blanket.

  Nokosi has become a community dog since we got here. There aren’t too many canines around, so she’s kinda become everybody’s dog. She loves Liam, so he tends to claim her as his own, which is fine by me. I still get my share of attention when she’s around, and I’ve always got a head scratch for her.

  Georgie’s hiding in here with me. We created a few little privacy squares, so Rox and Terry are doubling up, too. Same with Lil and Danny. Liam’s bunking with Garland, who the kid’s really taken to. I think it’s because the long-haired blonde dude in the overalls is basically just a kid himself.

  “You awake?”

  “Yeah. Hey, Georgie.”

  “I know your breathing.”

  I smiled in the dark. “Wish they had bigger cots. I could use you tucked up against me.”

  “You sleep?”

  “Pretty good, actually,” I answered. “I dreamed like crazy.”

  “About what?”

  “Indians. Zombies. What else?”

  “Well,” said Georgie. “Dreams are supposed to be an escape. Not just more of the same.”

  “Hard to escape it, darlin’. Seems like we’re all Indians now. Crazy as that seems.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” said Georgie. “You know what it means, right?”

  I thought about it, there in the dark. “You mean that Climbin’ Fox’s curse actually worked, right?”

  “Yeah, that,” said Georgie. “But there are other implications. Like what we’re up against.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “How much of the population do you think is Native American?”

  “Shit, I didn’t even know I was. I may not be the best person to ask.”

  “When you and I went to the library a couple of days ago, I found a book on Native Americans in the states. The book was from 2017. It estimated there were roughly 5,000,000 Native Americans in the country.”

  “Think they were counting me?”

  “I didn’t get to the part where they said how they reached the figure,” said Georgie.

  “So, what’s the point of this conversation?”

  “What is 360,000,000 minus 5,000,000?”

  I lay there, working over in my head what Georgie was up to. It wasn’t the math – that was easy – it was the point.

  Just a couple of seconds later, I realized I didn’t much like it. “Shit,” I said.

  “Yes. Shit, indeed.”

  “We’re gonna need more .22s.”

  “And more Indians, it seems.”

  “Wanna try and make one?”

  She laughed. It was a sound I really liked to hear. “Rain check. I have to pee. Go with?”

  “I’m not letting you go out there alone. Plus, I have to pee, too.”

  “For a minute I thought you were being a chauvinist pig,” she said, a smile in her voice.

  I smiled back, pushing myself up and swinging my feet over the edge of the cot. I placed them flat on the polished wood floor and started to tell her to get ready. To my surprise, I looked up in the gloom of our makeshift tent to see Georgie all dressed and waiting.

  “Grab a gym towel,” I said. “Let’s hike to the stream for a bath.”

  We headed out, now familiar with the pattern of privacy partitions that required we navigate a zig-zaggy path through the gymnasium to reach the doors.

  We nodded to the day’s guards, which consisted of a 15-year-old girl from the Nacogdoche tribe named Lona, a senior citizen from Maine named Lenny, and an introverted middle-aged guy named Bill Jeffries. I only knew that because he was the kind of guy who always used his last name in introductions.

  And he introduced himself to me every single time I saw him. It was always, “Hey, Mr. Baxter. Bill Jeffries.”

  I’d say, “Yeah, Bill. We’ve met a few times.”

  “I got a face that’s easy to forget, least that’s what they tell me.”

  “Bill Jeffries,” I said. “I remember you from the day we got here, the next day after that, and yesterday, I think. Consider yourself recognizable.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Did you need anything?”

  “Nope. You call me when you need me. I’m up for going out to find that Indian, too.” He said it with disdain in his voice.

  I remember looking at him. “Bill, you realize you’re an Indian, right? We all are. It’s why we’re still alive.”

  “I don’t hate Indians. I just hate him. Lost my wife and all my kids.”

  I nodded and squeezed his shoulder as we walked by. I’d heard the story when Bill told it to a group of the newcomers, and it came back to me right then.

  I’d been eavesdropping, kind of spacing out, really. When he started going through his family’s ordeal, I became kinda mesmerized.

  The night everything started, Bill’s adopted daughter changed. She’d been outside when the black rain started, playing tetherball with her sister.

  Shortly after, she took on a cough, then the skin on her face became pallid. He’d put her in bed after giving her a baby aspirin. Night fell and the family went to bed.

  Little Annie shared a room with her sister, June. June wasn’t adopted. She was fine. Bill Jeffries’ blood ran through her veins.

  He didn’t understand the importance of that fact until much later.

  By the time Bill woke up, all five of his kids, ranging in age from six years to seventeen, were devouring the man’s wife.

  He’d stood there, mouth open, trying to unravel what he was seeing. When he realized what covered his wife of many decades was oozing blood, he screamed and knocked every one of them off her body.

  What his eyes fell upon made him vomit. She was nearly a hollow shell; her chest cavity was empty, and they’d been working their ravenous way toward any remaining flesh and meat.

  Feeling hands clawing at his back, it didn’t take him more than a second to realize the creatures now pushing toward him weren’t his children anymore. They didn’t speak – they growled. All of their faces and arms had bite marks – tiny ones.

  Annie-sized.

  They didn’t smile. Ghoulish grimaces with flitting tongues and snapping jaws replaced the faces he once loved.

  He could only recall staggering backward, out of the room toward his garage. He slammed the door and barricaded it. After a day or two, running low on food and water, he’d chanced opening the garage door.

  It had almost been his last mistake. Crazed neighbors staggered toward the sound, sending Bill running back to the wall to pound the button and bring the door down.

  It was agonizingly slow.

  Several creatures reached the garage before it came all the way down, and he kicked at them, trying to keep them at bay.

  The photo beam was broken by clamoring bodies and the door reversed, jerking back up, widening the access for the mons
ters. His eyes searched frantically, and fell upon a baseball bat. He grabbed it and swung it with everything he had, beating back the crazies until he had a fifteen-foot open gap before the next staggering rotter.

  He ran back to the button and mashed on it. The garage door started its slow trek downward, inch-by-inch leaving a smaller and smaller opening.

  The kids were at the inside door now, drawn by the motor and garage door noise. They clawed at it from within the house. Bill heard them there, just on the other side of the slab.

  Eventually, resigned to the notion that he would be going nowhere, he lay on the ground, scooting into the sleeping bag he used when he used to go camping with his family. Bill lay there as the night stretched on and on, listening to the persistent scratching, the horrific, guttural keening.

  The next morning, he found the ham radio in a box marked ELECTRONICS. He took it out, plugged it in.

  It was how he found Micky Rode.

  He waited until the Rode caravan announced its path and decided. He left the next day. He just opened the damned door and charged out, leaving everything behind.

  He beat the Rode caravan by almost a full day. When he saw the dust trails in the distance, he cried.

  He’d felt so alone.

  “Head on in. I’ll guard.”

  Where the port-a-potties stood was at the end of the football field, which was located right at the north tip of the city where Main Street dead-ended at a stand of trees that went back farther than I’d cared to investigate.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” she said.

  “Don’t take too long.”

  She disappeared inside and I watched the green VACANT flag become a red OCCUPIED flag. I was pretty sure I could beat that latch with a nail file.

  Being a man, I didn’t carry one of those, and I respected my pocketknife’s blade too much to use it like that. Hell. I knew she’d let me in if I begged hard enough.