Zombie Playlist: A Rock Zombie Romance Read online

  Copyright © 2020 Kirsty Dallas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. You are more than welcome to make teasers though and use quotes from the book. Word of mouth is a valuable tool in spreading book love, and far more admirable than spreading that love via illegal file-sharing sites.

  PUBLISHED BY KD PUBLISHING

  EDITING BY ELI PETERS

  FORMATTING BY KIRSTY DALLAS

  COVER DESIGN BY MURPHY RAE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d love to give a huge shout-out to Eli Peters who did a kickass job of editing Z.P, not to mention her divine husband, Mr. Mark Peters who helped us put together an awesome playlist. You guys rock!

  Thank you so much to the uber-talented Murphy who came to my rescue with her crazy awesome skills and created a perfect cover. Murph, you are a Queen!

  And finally, my daughter. Ladybug, you are my rock and without you 2019 would have sucked so bad. I love you more.

  READER WARNING

  If you're sensitive to the occasional horror theme, smoking weed and nicotine, drinking vodka straight from the bottle, and a shit load of cursing, this epic fictional adventure may not be for you.

  Dedication

  To my enemies,

  May your brains become a zombie entrée.

  Isaiah 13:9 “Behold, the day of the Lord comes, cruel with wrath and fierce anger, to make the land a desolation: and to destroy its sinners from it.”

  Prologue, in the beginning

  Silver, grey tendrils of smoke drifted upwards, dancing lazily as it twisted and spiraled through the air. The cigarette that hung between my long fingers shook precariously. The ash at the opposite end was a delicate combination of grey and black flecks, attached loosely to the white paper yet to burn. My trembling hand lifted the cigarette to my lips, and I inhaled, dragging the warm smoke into my lungs where I held it for a few seconds before blowing it back out on a long exhale.

  I’d been accused of being ignorant to the world around me more than once, and it was a fair accusation. I found it easy to become lost in my own mind which was a place of chaos, a chaos that could only be silenced with music. As lead guitarist for the band, Rifts of Destruction, it was a dream job that pandered to my love for all things music and helped quiet my frenzied thoughts. I didn’t watch TV, and rarely listened to the radio, preferring the eclectic and ever-changing playlists on my iPhone. That’s probably why I now sat shocked and unable to drag my eyes from the large, wall mounted TV screen before me. The sound was low, but I could still hear the words spilling from the speakers with mind-numbing statistics and medical terminology that left me reeling. State of Emergency filtered through my ears and sank into my mind. Stay at home, avoid public places, don’t come to the hospital…Red Rage. It all tapped into that disbelieving place in my brain that shocked me literally speechless. How poetic, the bedlam in my mind had been effectively silenced, and it wasn’t by music. The only reason I’d put the television on in the first place was because I called 911 and was greeted by an automated recording. It said much the same thing as the grave reporter on the screen in front of me. Disconnecting the call to 911, I tossed my cell phone to one side and sat back into the leather sofa.

  “Fuck,” I murmured, drawing back on the cigarette.

  Bump.

  My gaze flew to the end of the hallway, listening keenly. When I didn’t hear anything else my concentration returned to the TV. I was sitting in the vast living room of my modern Art Deco inspired home that I owned with my on-again, off-again…currently off-again, boyfriend, Cullen Creed. I’d called things off a month ago after I caught him screwing my best friend and band manager, Sylvie. It sucked, because I really thought he’d finally changed, and that the shiny new surface of fame and fortune had lost its sparkle. I assumed he would settle down happily with the one person who had been at his side since the beginning of this whole crazy train ride. I assumed wrong. It also sucked because we lived under the same damn roof. I’d spent the past week at a hotel and only made the trip home to gather more of my shit, having decided I was done with him for good, or so I told myself. I’d blown into the house with my anger and bluster, ready to yet again let out my hurt in a screaming rant only to find Cullen sick as a dog. It started out pretty trivial, with headaches, aching muscles, and a weird itch that I accused him of catching from Sylvie. The symptoms quickly got worse though, and over the course of twenty-four hours, his mood plummeted to pissy and violent, his speech began to slur, and the veins under his skin began to hemorrhage giving him a weird, purple like webbing all over his body. Currently he was asleep, his breathing labored.

  The journalist on the screen interrupted my thoughts looking serious…and scared shitless.

  “The virus is spreading quickly, and the Center for Disease Control says there is no known cure.”

  “Fuckety fuck.”

  Is this what Cullen had? Could I catch it? Trying to recall my interactions with Cullen over the last twenty-four hours I was pretty confident I hadn’t touched him. I’d been reluctant to get anywhere near his cheating ass, but he could have coughed once or twice in my direction. Is that how the virus was spread? Shit on a biscuit, this whole thing was a cluster fuck.

  Another noise came from the hallway, and my heart lurched into my throat. The sound was subtle, almost non-existence, but it was there. A low growl that sounded a little like an alligator, and I’d been on a swamp adventure in New Orleans, so I knew what that shit sounded like. It seemed a little unlikely there was an alligator living in my house though. So, on shaky legs, I stood, the cigarette still hanging from my fingers.

  “Cullen?”

  The sound stopped, and my ears strained to hear something…anything. I’d never liked the silence, but this was unlike anything I’d endured before. This was terrifying. My heart felt too big for my chest cavity as it tried to beat its way through my skin.

  “This isn’t happening,” I whispered, trying to convince myself this was all just a crappy fucking dream. “Shiloh, you took a bad trip and now you’re paying for it.”

  Like a sudden and ferocious storm Cullen appeared, sprinting down the long corridor and into the living room. Upon his blustering entrance he shouldered my favorite piece of art, a chrome flame that sat under an LED spotlight. It wobbled precariously, before falling to the ground with a loud crash. A little spark of anger overrode my disbelief and fear and I took a deep, livid breath in, ready to let loose on the clumsy asshole. Any words I was about to unleash disappeared as I noticed a pungent stench. It was indescribable, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Rotting death was all I could think of.

  “What the fuck is that smell?” I murmured.

  With an animal-like sharpness that sent a shiver down my spine, Cullen’s blood-red eyes darted to meet mine. He scrambled my way, movements much faster than I’d ever seen before.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I squealed.

  Fight or flight set in, and like any red-blooded, healthy twenty-something female, I ran. Leaping over the sofa, I tripped on the stupid Angola rug, my knees cushioned by the white wool
carpet. A hand wrapped itself around my ankle, and a blood curdling scream escaped my lips. With frantic and clumsy movements, I scrambled forward, kicking for all it was worth. Once the grip was dislodged, I clambered to my feet and raced to the other side of the room. Spinning around, I found Cullen also on his feet and coming after me again.

  “Cullen!” I screamed, but there was no recognition in his horrifyingly hungry stare.

  Trying to move out of his reach, I almost tripped again, this time over Cullen’s bag of golf clubs that were sent sprawling to the floor. Ducking under his grabby hands, my fingers grazed the leather grip of one club, and I wrapped my hand around it, turning to face Cullen who was once again lunging for me. This time his fingers managed to tangle with the long sleeve of my top.

  “Let go you fucking freak,” I cried, swinging the club like my life depended upon it.

  The consequent thwack with a little bit of splatter made me want to vomit. At least he released my shirt which gave me better leverage when the still-standing bastard tried to grab at my hair. The snarling that came from his mouth was terrifying and the strength with which he attacked was staggering, especially since he was knocking on death’s door less than half an hour ago. I swung again and again, ignoring the brains and blood that sprayed our apartment. Eventually his attack slowed, and he collapsed to his knees, those grabby hands still reaching for me. Not good enough. With another swing that I lined up like a pro golfer, I swung the club, and Cullen’s head finally caved in as his body slumped to the floor. There was no stopping my retching this time as I vomited into a potted plant to my left. Once finished, I reluctantly glanced in Cullen’s direction. His limbs twitched a few times, then he went still. The mop of blonde hair that I’d run my hands through was caked in blood. Those full lips that had kissed mine with breathtaking perfection were blue. That ridiculously handsome face that had only last month appeared on the front of Billboard was now beaten beyond recognition. Swallowing down bile, I forced myself to look away.

  On unsteady feet I stumbled my way back to the sofa and fell into its cool embrace. Reaching for my cigarettes with a shaking hand, I pulled one free and lit it up. My other hand was still wrapped around the golf club, a driver. I didn’t know much about golf, but I knew this club. Sylvie had bought it for Cullen for his birthday this year. That was before I knew he was fucking her. Jez, our drummer, had joked about her buying him a driver. I didn’t get it then…I got it now… Driver…Drive her. Of course it was a sexual implication, Jez was renowned for them. Son of a bitch!

  So, I killed my cheating ex-boyfriend, and I had to admit…it fucked me up a little. Perhaps if the world hadn’t been in the throes of the apocalypse I’d have checked myself into a self-help group. “Hi, my name is Shiloh Summers, and I killed my ex-boyfriend with a golf club.” Instead, I buried the guilt and horror of what I’d done so deep all I felt was resounding detachment.

  Taking a long drag on my cigarette, my gaze returned to the TV on the wall. Apparently, the world was disintegrating into some B-grade horror movie. If only I’d watched The Walking Dead, then I might have a clue about what to do. An unimpressed snort fell from my lips as I thought of all the times my parents promised the end of days. Their con artist of a pastor who’d spent years sucking their bank account dry often preached about the apocalypse. The fact of the matter was, the world was screwed, my parents and crazy Pastor Dillweed were right, Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon didn’t really exist, and I was on my own. The only thing I was prepared for was music. In a turn of whacked irony, I actually had a Zombie Playlist on my phone. One night on our last tour, under the heavy inebriation of Jack Daniels, Grey Goose Vodka, and a ton of weed, the band and I had pieced together several “epic” playlists, one of them being in the event of a zombie apocalypse. At the time, I laughed my ass off and mocked Cullen’s suggestion of an apocalypse. Glancing towards his lifeless body, I shuddered. Who’s laughing now?

  Track One: The Animals, We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

  CHAPTER 1

  The modest three-bedroom brick home before me appeared empty. Through the last dying moments of the shadowed night and well into the dawn, and half a pack of cigarettes later, all had been silent. Cars sat like slumbering beasts in driveways, the cracked-asphalt street mostly empty. Bakersfield appeared for all intent and purposes, deserted. But I knew better. The rancid and pungent smell of rotting flesh hung in the air everywhere…even here, on this quiet street. That told me it wasn’t entirely abandoned. Inside these inconspicuous, blue-collar homes, on this nicely groomed peaceful street, hung death. Well, not a true death. The kind of death that was slow decaying, rotting flesh with only a mindless, low functioning brain operating the decomposing body. Zombies. Fucking Zombies. On the television they were referred to as infected with a deadly virus that caused massive hemorrhaging, rapid deterioration of internal organs, and severe impairment to the brain. It had a long, Latin-sounding name, but it had adopted the moniker of Red Rage.

  Inhaling deeply, I pulled the smoke from my cigarette deep into my lungs and held it there, before allowing it to slowly escape my lips in a cloud that I wished I could wrap my nose in. The familiar, pungent notes from the burning tobacco smelled a billion times better than the tainted air I couldn’t seem to escape. The warmth in my lungs slowly bled away as the smoke left my body. It relaxed me, helped me pull my trembling limbs and chaotic thoughts back together. From the moment I’d stood from the sofa in my house in Long Beach and shook off the initial shock, I’d been trying to call my parents. There’d been no answer and as of two hours ago, I couldn’t even get a call to go through. The bars on my cell phone said I still had signal, but every time I dialed the number I was greeted with silence. It had been a long time since I’d spoken to Mom or Dad, my calls usually going straight to my sister, Noah. She was my beacon of beauty in an otherwise ugly world, the light to my darkness, the yin to my yang and all that jazz. While my relationship with my parents had always been strained, my love for Noah was endless. I’m the first to admit I was a difficult child and an even more difficult teenager which hadn’t changed much in my adult years. I was ten when I’d been caught shoplifting, but it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d done it. It wasn’t like I was a thief trying to better myself, I had money. I had stuff. But I also had a disorder, Compulsive Stealing Addiction. Resisting the need to take what wasn’t mine was a battle I struggled with still to this day, and it had made the glossy magazine covers and news more than once. My parents were deeply ashamed of my need to take what wasn’t mine, while Noah looked beyond the surface of my disorder. She saw the anger and frustration that brewed beneath my skin, she understood I was different, something my parents found shameful. By the time I began high school, they’d pretty much disowned me and were always the first in line to tell me how disgraceful my behavior was, or how embarrassed they were by me. That just exasperated my problem, because it made me angrier, then I’d do something stupid, like steal a twelve hundred-dollar Gucci handbag. Hell, I didn’t even like the butt ugly thing.

  What would normally be a two-hour trip from Long Beach to my family’s home in Bakersfield had taken a full day. The unusually large influx of cars on the road caused congestion unlike I’d ever seen. On top of heavy traffic, an accident in which no emergency services had attended on the I-5 just outside of Long Beach, brought my trip to a standstill. Nothing a little bit of reckless driving and backroads couldn’t fix. During that trip I’d almost systematically smoked my way through an entire pack of cigarettes. The last place I’d stopped to get more had been raided, stripped bare. Not an item was left on the shelves, even the cleaning aisle had been cleaned out, no pun intended. It was the first sign of looting that I’d noticed. The front door smashed open, and the store inside eerily quiet and empty. The scene screamed of hollow foreboding. It was a sign of things to come, things were only going to get worse…much worse. I had two cigarettes left, and if I didn’t find more soon, the shit would really hit the fan.<
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  Taking the burning filter from my mouth I held it up. The tobacco had burnt down to its final wisp of ash and a red ring marked the place my lips had been. The world might be falling apart, but it didn’t mean a girl couldn’t look good. My lips were adorned in a striking shade of red, and I pressed them together as I tossed the cigarette to the ground. Crushing the butt under the sole of my chunky, military style boot, I slowly stood, swinging my golf club around and around as I continued to watch the house. My backpack and guitar were hidden beneath the roomy SUV in the driveway; the car I intended on fleeing the city in. My own bucket of rust was currently sitting on the side of the road about two miles south of here, overheated. The band had been giving me shit for years about my car. It was as old as dirt, and even though I could afford a new one, I didn’t want one. Because I loved my fucking car, bumps, rust and all. Right now though, I was pretty dirty with myself for not upgrading. Wiggling my jaw, I tried to shift the strap on my military-issued helmet that currently protected my brain. Because, you know, Zombies eat brains. The helmet had been part of a slutty soldier costume for Halloween a couple of years back, and then relegated to a lamp shade, until now.

  Rotating my shoulders and then my neck, I stepped forward with a determined stride towards the house, pulling a key from my back pocket. The stench of death grew stronger as I approached, and I tried to bury my fear and swallow through the knot of emotion that had taken up place in my throat. Sliding the key into the lock as quietly as I could, I listened for the click before slowly turning the knob and gently pushing the door open just a crack. With a muffled gag, I pulled up the bandana that hung around my neck to rest over my nose, and I tried really fucking hard to breathe through my mouth. The stink was so strong I could almost taste it on my tongue. I wasn’t going to find anything good inside, but I couldn’t leave without checking first. I’d never been the praying type, my mom and dad did enough of that for all of us, but right now, as I carefully watched the gloomy, quiet living room before me, I prayed, or more-so begged and promised the sale of my retched soul, just to find Noah alive and well.