The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Steven Ramirez
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
shriek and my heart thudded. I pulled over, rolled down the window and listened. Nothing but the wind.
“Mountain lion,” I said.
When I arrived at Jim’s house, everything was dark. I grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and got out to investigate. I stepped on something soft. It made a crunching noise, and when I shone the flashlight, I found an orange house cat that looked like it had been gored with a screwdriver.
I jumped away from the rotting carcass, wiped my shoe on some grass and shone the flashlight all around the front yard. There were dead animals everywhere—hundreds of them. Most were dogs and cats. As I moved towards the house I saw a raccoon and what was left of a weasel.
For a second I caught myself thinking this was like one of those horror movies where the audience is screaming “Get out of there now!” No one would be stupid enough to enter the house in real life. Yet here I was, and I believed it made sense. I had to find out what happened to my friend.
The front door was unlocked. Jim never locked his doors because he didn’t think he owned anything worth stealing. Being familiar with the sparse furniture and lack of refinement, I had to agree.
I tried the lights—they came on. I expected to see the walls smeared with the words Helter Skelter in blood, but what I saw shocked me all the same. A huge sculpture of green longneck beer bottles rose from floor to ceiling, suspended by iron rebars that had been fashioned into a massive wall with a hole in the center. When had Jim built this?
I stepped on an orange tail that must’ve belonged to the cat from outside. I stood in the living room for a time, admiring the work and remembering all those nights we drank ourselves stupid. There were so many times I woke up in the morning on Jim’s floor. I tried picturing myself there and wondered to the depths of my soul what in God’s name I had thought I was accomplishing. We’d spent so much time here, and I couldn’t remember a single intelligent conversation.
Much as I’d done at home, I did a careful check of the house, calling out Jim’s name. After fifteen minutes of searching, I took a seat in the kitchen. It was painted avocado green. The used aluminum table and chairs looked like they had come from a condemned diner. Jim had sold off his parents’ furniture long ago.
The refrigerator still worked. It was one of those old round-cornered Frigidaire jobs that might’ve looked good in the 1950s. I opened it and found what I expected. Nothing but beer. With the stress of these last few weeks, I craved that wicked drink. All those shiny bottles dusted with condensation waiting for someone to twist off the tops and try to quench a thirst that could never be satisfied. Catching myself, I slammed the refrigerator door shut and choked on a scream.
Jim was standing there, watching me with a birdlike curiosity.
His clothes were a mess, caked with mud and what looked like dried blood. His sandy hair was matted with dirt. His eyes were like two wafers of slate, grey and lifeless. His eyelids were rimmed with red. A whitish goo had formed near the tear ducts. His mouth was filthy with old blood.
I don’t know if it was the fluorescent lights or I was tired, but he looked livid. The gash ringing his neck was dark and ragged. His skin was a kind of greyish and his fingernails were a blackish purple. And here was the weird part. Although he seemed to be alive and aware, there was no indication he was breathing.
Instead of panicking, I sat back on the chair and sighed. “Been watching me long?”
A riverless silence made the air heavy. I thought he hadn’t heard me, but when I looked over at him, I could see he was trying to form words but nothing came out. He moved towards me stiffly and I got to my feet. Why in hell hadn’t I brought the shovel?
“Jim, what’re you—”
He brushed past me and went to the refrigerator. I smelled excrement and saw he’d shitted himself. He
“Mountain lion,” I said.
When I arrived at Jim’s house, everything was dark. I grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and got out to investigate. I stepped on something soft. It made a crunching noise, and when I shone the flashlight, I found an orange house cat that looked like it had been gored with a screwdriver.
I jumped away from the rotting carcass, wiped my shoe on some grass and shone the flashlight all around the front yard. There were dead animals everywhere—hundreds of them. Most were dogs and cats. As I moved towards the house I saw a raccoon and what was left of a weasel.
For a second I caught myself thinking this was like one of those horror movies where the audience is screaming “Get out of there now!” No one would be stupid enough to enter the house in real life. Yet here I was, and I believed it made sense. I had to find out what happened to my friend.
The front door was unlocked. Jim never locked his doors because he didn’t think he owned anything worth stealing. Being familiar with the sparse furniture and lack of refinement, I had to agree.
I tried the lights—they came on. I expected to see the walls smeared with the words Helter Skelter in blood, but what I saw shocked me all the same. A huge sculpture of green longneck beer bottles rose from floor to ceiling, suspended by iron rebars that had been fashioned into a massive wall with a hole in the center. When had Jim built this?
I stepped on an orange tail that must’ve belonged to the cat from outside. I stood in the living room for a time, admiring the work and remembering all those nights we drank ourselves stupid. There were so many times I woke up in the morning on Jim’s floor. I tried picturing myself there and wondered to the depths of my soul what in God’s name I had thought I was accomplishing. We’d spent so much time here, and I couldn’t remember a single intelligent conversation.
Much as I’d done at home, I did a careful check of the house, calling out Jim’s name. After fifteen minutes of searching, I took a seat in the kitchen. It was painted avocado green. The used aluminum table and chairs looked like they had come from a condemned diner. Jim had sold off his parents’ furniture long ago.
The refrigerator still worked. It was one of those old round-cornered Frigidaire jobs that might’ve looked good in the 1950s. I opened it and found what I expected. Nothing but beer. With the stress of these last few weeks, I craved that wicked drink. All those shiny bottles dusted with condensation waiting for someone to twist off the tops and try to quench a thirst that could never be satisfied. Catching myself, I slammed the refrigerator door shut and choked on a scream.
Jim was standing there, watching me with a birdlike curiosity.
His clothes were a mess, caked with mud and what looked like dried blood. His sandy hair was matted with dirt. His eyes were like two wafers of slate, grey and lifeless. His eyelids were rimmed with red. A whitish goo had formed near the tear ducts. His mouth was filthy with old blood.
I don’t know if it was the fluorescent lights or I was tired, but he looked livid. The gash ringing his neck was dark and ragged. His skin was a kind of greyish and his fingernails were a blackish purple. And here was the weird part. Although he seemed to be alive and aware, there was no indication he was breathing.
Instead of panicking, I sat back on the chair and sighed. “Been watching me long?”
A riverless silence made the air heavy. I thought he hadn’t heard me, but when I looked over at him, I could see he was trying to form words but nothing came out. He moved towards me stiffly and I got to my feet. Why in hell hadn’t I brought the shovel?
“Jim, what’re you—”
He brushed past me and went to the refrigerator. I smelled excrement and saw he’d shitted himself. He