Slow Burn (Book 7): City of Stin Read online

  Slow Burn

  City of Stin

  Book 7

  A novel

  by

  Bobby Adair

  http://www.bobbyadair.com

  http://www.facebook.com/BobbyAdairAuthor

  Cover Design and Graphics

  Alex Saskalidis, a.k.a. 187designz

  Editing, Research, & Proofreading

  Kat Kramer

  Weapons Consultant

  John Cummings

  eBook and Print Formatting

  Kat Kramer

  Text copyright © 2015, Bobby L. Adair

  Foreword:

  I want to take the opportunity to thank all of my readers who pushed for more in the Slow Burn series. Thanks for all memes, the forlorn posts about the passing of dear fictional friends, the bricks through my windows, the kidnapping of my goldfish, etc. (kidding about these last ones, of course).

  At the end of Slow Burn 6, I shared a little bit about writing about Murphy and Zed—they are sometimes fun and sometimes difficult to write. I had expected to stop the series at that point though I clearly left the possibility on the table that I’d write some more.

  You know what they say. Never say never.

  I guess like most of you, I grew attached to the characters over the course of six books. In a way I find difficult to describe, I miss Steph and I miss Russell. It’s strange letting characters I like so much die. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about those two, although the possibility has been suggested that I write the stories of some of the characters prior to their showing up in the Slow Burn series. Personal prequels, I guess? Perhaps I will. Has that been done?

  Thankfully, we’ve still got Zed and Murphy to torment.

  As it turns out, City of Stin is a continuation of the Slow Burn story, picking up where Slow Burn 6 left off. This book should give our guys something of a new start, a new way to get into all kinds of trouble. I’m very happy with how it turned out.

  For that, I should thank all of you. Your feedback made all the difference in the choice to write this story and to continue with Slow Burn. I am overwhelmed by the positive feedback sent in Facebook messages, posted on my wall, and shared in reviews on sites like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, and Kobo. I do try to keep up with replies, and although sometimes I fail miserably, I do see each and every message and replies in threads.

  I am humbled by the time you take to reach out, and also your participation on my Facebook page. It’s really interesting to watch the interactions and laugh at your posts and memes. And it gets personal…last Christmas I posted a note about what might be on readers’ holiday wish lists; some requests were material, but many readers wished for health for a sick loved one, one last holiday with dad who’d passed, a job so they could give gifts to their children. One reader (hey Andrea!) started writing messages of encouragement, and others joined in. Not to be overly dramatic, but it really gives me hope for humanity.

  Something else interesting has been happening lately behind the scenes that gave me pause. Slow Burn readers come from all walks of life and from cities and towns all over the world. Love of zombie stories seems to be a universal thing. Recently I’ve received a few messages from folks who haven’t picked up a book in years—messages that make me choke up a little. Maybe they had a bad experience in school that made reading unpleasant or were just never bit by the reading “bug.” One new reader loved zombies but had difficulty with reading. Her 12-year-old daughter got hold of Slow Burn, and they read it together. She’s now taking classes to get her GED, and I couldn’t be more proud. Another reader had difficulty getting her 14-year-old son interested in reading and got him started reading Slow Burn. He’s now excited about following Zed and Murphy in their adventures. In fact, two characters had last-minute name changes to hopefully incentivize Gabe to keep up the good work.

  So this whole writing thing turned out to be something different than I originally envisioned. In the beginning it was “just another zombie book,” but turned out to offer an escape, inspiration, and so much more to both me and at least some readers.

  So as long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. Your feedback—through both the Facebook page, reviews where you purchased your copy of the book, and recommendations to friends—is valuable and appreciated.

  I thank you guys again,

  – Bobby

  Previously, in Slow Burn:

  Book 1 – Zero Day

  Zed Zane wakes up hung over one Sunday morning and begins to fortify himself with tequila before going to his mother’s house for lunch – and to beg for rent. There, he finds his mother and a neighbor dead, and his stepfather in full-throttle, crazed cannibal mode. Zed, fighting for his life, kills his stepfather in a scuffle, during which he sustains a nasty bite wound.

  He tries calling 911, but the line is perpetually busy. That’s strange, but no stranger than the way that Zed is beginning to feel. He spends the next two days unconscious with a raging fever, and awakens as what soon becomes known as a “slow burn,” a carrier of a virus that destroys higher brain function and turns people into vicious, flesh-eating monsters.

  Together with Murphy, a fellow slow burn who escapes with Zed in the aftermath of a prison riot following his erroneous arrest for the murder of his parents and their neighbor, we follow Zed on his quest for shelter, resources, and a plan for living in the strange new world in which he finds himself.

  Although Zed himself has not “turned” completely, as have most of the other infected, the ambiguous, not-immune-but-not-dangerous category in which he finds himself will from this point forward direct his every thought and step if he is to survive.

  Book 2 – Infected

  Infected finds Zed, Murphy, and their traveling companion, Jerome on the move again following what proves to be a brief respite in a university dormitory, in the company of some extremely, albeit justifiably, paranoid ROTC students and three coeds, one of whom befriends Zed. In the process of stealing a Humvee, Jerome is shot by soldiers and Zed and Murphy head on alone to find Murphy’s family.

  With Murphy’s mother dead and his sister missing, their next stop is a house rumored to feature an underground survivalist bunker, where another surprise awaits.

  Book 3 – Destroyer

  Destroyer finds Zed saying goodbye to one friend and pressing forward with two new ones to whom we are introduced in Book 2 – Infected. Mandi, whom Zed and Murphy rescued from the bunker, is immune to the virus. Russell, whose home the others plundered in search of food and other supplies, is also a slow burn, but lower-functioning, childlike and docile.

  After seeing the carnage at the dormitory, a raging, vengeful Zed wants only to kill Mark, his nemesis and the former leader of the ROTC squad. Since Mark has disappeared, Zed unleashes his fury on untold numbers of infected in his path as he makes his way back to the hospital, in an attempt to rescue Steph, a nurse whom he befriended while seeking help for the feverish Murphy shortly after the prison riot. But the brave medical staff, holed up on the tenth floor of the hospital, and running out of provisions, has decided to take matters in hand by exposing themselves to the virus, and shooting those who “turn.” Zed is determined not to face another loss, but once again, time is running out…

  Book 4 – Dead Fire

  Dead Fire picks up following an infected attack on Sarah Mansfield’s fortified house, during which 3 people seek shelter with Zed Zane and his fellow survivors. In the confusion, however, Murphy is gunned down, and an unthinking, emotional Zed strikes out to enact revenge. Unfortunately, the shooting and commotion have only attracted more Whites. A diversion plan emerges to rid the horde of the Smart One trying to figure a way through the gates, and lead the oth
er infected away from the compound. Momentarily safe, the survivors turn to the matter of where to bury the dead. Zed, being now the only one available who would not attract the attentions of the infected, accompanies Freitag on this morbid mission. In short order, Zed is once more embittered and hardened against trust, when he finds himself stranded. After a series of developments that prove the Whites to be more formidable foes than he ever dreamed, he finds his way back to Sarah’s house to find the compound overrun with infected and his friends mysteriously vanished without a trace, leaving Zed to rely once more solely on his wits to survive…

  Book 5 – Torrent

  Following his none-too-soon reunion with his friends at the safe house, Zed is hoping things can finally fall into a stable routine, but in post-virus Austin, things are far from stable. On a mission to raid the ammunition bunkers at Camp Mabry, Zed and Murphy spot a group of the newer, naked infected, who are exhibiting some sophisticated and disturbing new behaviors, such as scouting and hunting – for them.

  After a narrow escape, the two pass the home of Mr. Mays on the return trip, stirring Zed’s predictable rescuer impulse. Finding Mr. Mays dead, Zed brings fellow chain gang escapee Nico along to join the group, whose numbers have grown again, thanks to their merger with the girls on the riverboat, where the group has moved, as seems to be the safest hiding place… Or is it?

  Book 6 – Bleed

  Zed and Murphy are trying to find their surviving friends to finally get out of Austin and head west to safety, away from the zombie hordes. But trouble, their perpetual companion, dogs them at every turn as they discover that infected humans aren’t the only source of mortal danger.

  After finding Murphy’s sister out at the lake, and a standoff with a group of survivors on Monk’s Island, Zed and Murphy separate from the group, finding refuge in Austin.

  Chapter 1

  As I slowly recovered from my gunshot wound in the cabin on the south shore of Lake Travis, I spent long afternoons on the back deck staring at gray November clouds and watching the wind whip up whitecaps across the lake. I frequently sat in the drizzling rain until my joints were chilled to the point of aching, and my face turned so numb my lips wouldn’t form words when I spoke.

  While I did my sitting and staring, Murphy mostly left me alone. Maybe he figured if I wallowed enough I’d eventually tire of feeling isolated and pitiful. I told and retold myself that everybody on the planet who was still breathing was doing the same thing under the burdensome grief of those they’d lost.

  The thought I got good at avoiding was that the survivors who didn’t want to join the dead were dragging themselves up out of their grief and doing their best with what life had left them. The soon-to-be-dead were a lot more like me. Wallowing. Waiting.

  For the most part, the Whites didn’t bother us. We were way out west of Austin on a peninsula sticking out into the lake. Around us were dense cedar trees hiding houses on neighboring properties. Most of the homes had been abandoned, or the owners had turned into Whites much earlier in the pandemic. They’d either been killed or had moved on.

  At night, we sometimes heard them hunting out on the other side of the lake. They’d scream and make a racket, running in groups of a few dozen or a few hundred through the woods. During the day, we’d watch a helicopter or two—sometimes three—flying from north to south in the morning, and sometimes, early afternoon. They often flew back before sunset. Murphy and I became convinced the helicopters must have originated up north—we both guessed Fort Hood in Killeen—maybe an hour north of us by car back when a car could still be driven at seventy miles per hour on the highway. Now those same roads were ribbons of asphalt sprinkled with abandoned hulks, scattered with bones, and stained with blood.

  “Hey, man.”

  I turned to look at the door, a question on my face.

  Murphy motioned toward the kitchen. “I cooked up that big-ass catfish I caught. Fried him up in a cornmeal batter like my mom used to make.”

  I nodded and got out of my sulking chair.

  Murphy closed the door and went back inside.

  I reached my left arm up over my shoulder and leaned to my right. As the scars from my bullet wound stretched, the sensation of pain was barely there—because it had healed completely, or whether the virus had numbed that part of my sensation away, I didn’t know. I headed into the house. It smelled of home cooking. It smelled normal.

  What is normal?

  It’s the simple things you never guess you’re going to miss until they sneak back into your life, bringing with them a jumble of nostalgic feelings with the fucked-up parts of the memories scraped off.

  On the kitchen table sat a big, picture-perfect platter of cornbread-coated catfish filets and a bowl of misshapen hushpuppies. Murphy placed a bowl of steaming pinto beans on the kitchen table and pulled a chair out to seat himself.

  I grabbed a chair and took a seat as well, popping a warm hushpuppy into my mouth. “It’s going to suck when we run out of propane.”

  Murphy shook his head, betraying a moment of frustration before he smiled. “That White I killed a couple weeks back—”

  “At the neighbor’s house?” I asked. The house on the neighboring parcel of land stood a couple of hundred yards distant through thick growths of cedars and live oaks. Murphy had come across the infected man while scavenging but hadn’t said much more about it.

  “He was starting to get pretty ripe.” Murphy threw in a shrug. “Catfish are bottom feeders. They like stink-bait. I figured since the White’s skull was already open, you know, I took a chunk of it and put it on the hook.” Murphy nodded down at the catfish on the platter. “Three feet long. We could’ve had a fish fry and fed the whole block.”

  “Back before,” I said, avoiding the thought of why the catfish in the lake seemed to be thriving.

  Nodding, Murphy agreed. “Before.”

  “We won’t eat all of that before it goes bad.” I patted my belly, feeling the ripple of muscles beneath my shirt. “I’ll try though. It won’t hurt me to put on a few pounds.”

  Murphy said, “I’ll bet you’ve put on twenty since we got here.”

  “You think?” I asked. “Am I getting fat?” I smiled.

  Murphy shook his head. “You should have seen yourself before. You were a skinny little fucker.”

  I recalled looking in the mirror after I was finally able to keep myself on my feet. I’d lost a lot of weight through the course of everything that had happened, a lot more than I could afford. I remembered thinking at the time I looked like a tweaker who’d been hitting the meth too long. Twenty pounds, or however many pounds I’d put back on, still left me pretty lean but looking more normal than not.

  As for Murphy, I’d have guessed he’d lost well over fifty pounds since it all started. Maybe a bit more. The difference was that he had the extra pounds to lose. Now he was thickly muscled with no fat at all.

  I put a few filets on my plate, with a handful of hushpuppies, and a big scoop of beans. Murphy did the same.

  The first bite of the catfish put a smile on my face. “Good,” I said through a full mouth.

  “It’s good to see you smile.”

  “Whatever,” I said as I chewed, swallowed, and stuffed in another bite. “What’s up with these hushpuppies? Aren’t they supposed to be round?”

  Murphy ignored the dig. He looked out at the lake through the frilly curtains hanging partially closed. He took another big bite of fish. “Not to pat myself on the back too hard, but this does taste like my mom’s.”

  I looked out the window to see what had Murphy’s interest. “What else is on your mind? What are you looking for out on the lake?”

  “Nothing,” said Murphy. “It’s pretty.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I nodded toward the window. “Spill it. What?”

  “You’ve been such a melancholy little bitch since we got here, it’s nice to see you smiling.”

  “I—”

  Murphy raised his big hands, palm
s facing me. “I’m not trying to start anything. I know what happened as well as you. I was there, remember?”

  It was something I tried hard to put out of my mind. I looked down at the floor as I thought about the feeling of Steph’s hand going limp in mine. Her death still hurt. I tried to change the subject back to the food. “Good thing you paid attention when your mom was in the kitchen.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes before Murphy said, “Look man, I know you got…” Murphy made a vague gesture at his head. “I don’t know. You like to hold onto your painful shit. You know what I mean?”

  I nodded and shrugged. I knew exactly what he meant. It still didn’t change anything.

  “You’re not like me. I get that.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Murphy, I know what you’re going to say. We both went through it. We both lost—” It was hard to see the memory in my mind. It was hard to say—physically hard—because I started to choke up over it. “You watched Mandi die.” I took a deep breath. “We both did. And Russell too. Fuck. And everybody.”

  Murphy started to say something, but I raised a hand to keep him quiet. I said, “I lost Steph, as helplessly as you lost Mandi. I don’t know if that helpless part makes a difference. To me, it feels like it does.”

  “Pointless painful shit,” Murphy muttered.

  “I know how much it hurt you, losing Mandi.”

  Murphy nodded.

  “You were angry and bitter about it for a while.” I vaguely pointed across the table at him. “Now, the Murphy Philosophy has won out. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were back to normal. Happy fucking Murphy. Too many smiles. Too many jokes.”

  “I could get on my pulpit and try to sell you again on the Murphy Plan,” he said.

  “I don’t need to be sold,” I told him. “I know sometimes the burden of all the death gets to you. I see you out on the deck occasionally, staring at the water with that lost look in your eyes.”