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  ONLY THE DEAD DON’T DIE

  A. D. Popovich

  Only The Dead Don’t Die

  Copyright © August 2014 by A. D. Popovich

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Jack Popovich

  License Notes

  This book or any portion of this publication may not be reproduced or used in any manner without prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, (live, dead, or undead) business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Edition 2016

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful mom, Anne Shearer Uribe.

  Thank you so much for always believing in me.

  Chapter 1

  Scarlett Lewis stretched and rolled over on her bed to check the time. “What?” The alarm clock on the white, shabby chic nightstand flashed 1:13 PM. Jeez, I slept 24 hours? She slowly eased back under the sheet as confusion set in. Her head pounded with the most intense headache she’d ever experienced, and the inside of her mouth felt like it had been slammed with a sledgehammer. How much tequila did I drink?

  Slowly, agonizingly, like an obsolete computer hard drive forced to reboot, her brain defragged through the recent events. And suddenly the heartbreaking emotions she had managed to suppress came bursting to the surface, bringing anger, tears, and hopelessness. Kevin, her (now) ex-fiancé, had jilted her two weeks before the wedding and had apparently (according to one of her Facebook friends) ran off to the Bahamas with his boss’s hot, spoiled brat daughter.

  Really? Kevin had always seemed too levelheaded to fall for “that type.” How could Scarlett even compete with the perfectly tanned, tall, thin, socialite who looked absolutely breathtaking in a bikini? Besides being heartbroken and utterly humiliated, Scarlett felt completely worthless when she compared herself to Kevin’s new girlfriend.

  Scarlett had none of her glamorous features. Scarlett’s wavy, sable-black hair (usually unmanageable unless bound in a hair tie), unfortunately, dipped dramatically into a widow’s peak, giving her almond-shaped, aquamarine eyes a rather witchy appearance. She made a great Morticia for Halloween, but most men seemed to find her prominent facial features just a little too much: her alabaster skin too pale, her eyes too intense, her lips too full, her smile too broad, and her nose too long and curvy. Her dimples were the only facial feature she actually did like, perhaps because the trait had been gifted to her by her long deceased mother.

  How could Kevin do that to me? Scarlett pressed her palms firmly against her forehead in a feeble attempt for instant pain relief. A few days after the wedding had been called off, her wisdom teeth decided to act-up. The pain had become unbearable; the wisdom teeth had impacted to the point where her only option had been oral surgery. Of course, she should’ve had her wisdom teeth removed years ago. However, in the past, the pain had only lasted a few days. But the pain hadn’t gone away this time.

  Scarlett vaguely remembered Cyndi giving her a ride to and from the oral surgery appointment. But that was about all she could remember, except for the being jilted part—that she absolutely could not get out of her head.

  Scarlett tossed about restlessly in bed and fought with the blankets unable to find a comfortable position. Her head throbbed. Her mouth throbbed. Her heart throbbed. She felt like disappearing under the blankets until the pain subsided, but her stomach’s incessant growling motivated her to crawl out of bed.

  She moped her way to the kitchen and a hot-pink sticky note sticking to one of the medicine bottles caught her attention: DON’T FORGET TO TAKE YOUR MEDICATION, LOVE CYNDI. Her devoted sister was always so thoughtful. She dutifully took her next antibiotic dosage and ignored the plastic bottle of pain pills, knowing how addicting painkillers could be.

  “Oh, shut up,” Scarlett moaned. The sounds of sirens blaring outside were so loud she could hear them through the double-pane windows. She figured there must be a really bad fire nearby. Always lots of fires in August, she thought. It had been a long, hot summer for Roseville, and California was in the midst of yet another drought year.

  After suffering through a bowl of chicken noodle soup, she sighed and gave in to the pain by popping one of the painkillers Dr. Wong had prescribed. The thought of dozing in-and-out of sleep to an old favorite movie sounded comforting, and she perused her classic movie collection. Her eyes’ instantly lit up when she came to the title Bringing Up Baby. A screwball comedy is just what the doctor ordered. A smile fleetingly tempted her lips but was overruled by the pain.

  With the volume down to one notch, Scarlett enjoyed the witty, quarrelsome banter of her beloved characters, Susan and David. She slumped on the living room’s sofa droopy-eyed, her eyes becoming heavier and heavier; it was like she watched the movie in her mind on a huge drive-in screen. And when her favorite scene played, she wasn’t sure whether she heard it, watched it or just envisioned it: the scene where Cary Grant’s wearing a woman’s marabou-trimmed negligee and ad-libs in his famous, exasperated tone, “Because I just went gay all of a sudden!”

  The movie had provided all the comfort she needed to forget her sorrows temporarily, but she must have fallen asleep before the hysterical jailhouse scene. “Bummer,” she mumbled, fluttering her eyes open and wincing to the sounds of sirens blaring outside again. Jeez Louise, even helicopters? She peeked out the window but didn’t notice anything unusual. To drown out the cacophony of sirens, she turned on every appliance she could think of: the humidifier, the ceiling fan, and a meditational CD. There, that ought to drown out the outside world.

  Still, her head and jaw throbbed, causing utter agony. The prescribed painkiller seemed to have the meager effect of a baby aspirin. Scarlett wished she had something stronger for the pain. Then she remembered the bottle of Vicodin Kevin had brought over when his back had gone out last summer. Did he leave the prescription here? When she finally found the bottle, she noticed it had expired. Better take two. She defiantly downed the pills as if they were the answers to all of her problems.

  Since the day, that absolutely dreadful day, Kevin had bailed out of the wedding and her life, Scarlett had resorted to cutting herself off from the three Fs: friends, family, and frenemies. She couldn’t handle another one of those “So sorry to hear about you and Kevin,” texts and emails. So when she noticed her cell phone vibrating nonstop, she impulsively stuffed the phone in the bottom of the laundry basket, threw the basket in the hall closet, and walked away in a huff. The world can survive without me . . .

  Chapter 2

  Dean Wormer sat in the booth sipping at a glass of iced tea, eyeing his watch. It was 12:45 PM. Looks like ole Frank’s a no-show. It was the second time this year Frank had forgotten their monthly luncheon at K428. It was Dean’s favorite lunch spot and despite missing the companionship of his buddy, his taste buds were already craving the bacon-wrapped meatloaf and already savoring the garlic mashed potatoes.

  Dean checked his pockets, but he had left his cell phone at home, probably in the kitchen’s junk drawer along with other various seldom-used items like mostly-used batteries (which he might need some day), lost-and-found screws, nuts, and bolts (which he might need some day), and his cell phone, which he needed today. Right now. He hardly ever used the outdated contraption of a cell phone that looked more like a Star Trek Communicator. Besides, he was dern near sure he needed to buy more TracFone minutes for it, something he had meant to do last month but had never gotten around to.

  The dreary-smiling waitress came around again, “It doesn’t look like your friend’s making it today?” she
asked, most likely hinting on whether or not he intended to place an order.

  “Reckon not, how ‘bout an order to go? My usual,” Dean decided. LuLu knew exactly the way he liked it. He and Frank had been coming to this restaurant for a couple of years now.

  “Coming right up,” LuLu said with a haggard smile. “Did you call your friend? Bet he’s got the flu bug that’s going around? It’s pretty vicious from what they say.” LuLu’s eyes suddenly widened as if she knew something he didn’t.

  “You have heard of it—the Super-Summer flu?” she asked with her cigarette-tarnished voice as if he was just some old codger who not only didn’t carry around a cell phone (like the Holy Bible) and who also didn’t own a television. But, he did have a cell phone and a TV; he just didn’t think to use them much.

  “Saw it on CNN this morning,” Dean said in acknowledgment. The news was always over-sensationalizing about something or another, telling people what to think, and whom to vote for, and what to buy. He didn’t pay much attention to the perfect-plastic-like talking heads of the day. He missed the trustworthy news anchors like Dan Rather and Lynne Russell. Now those people, he believed in, believed what they reported. Hell, even if it wasn’t true.

  “Half the staff already called in sick today. So I have to pull another double shift. Please tell me you already got your flu shot,” LuLu nearly nagged with a semi-fake smile. She sighed heavily, “I got my shot Monday. Me being a smoker and all, I’m a high risk,” she explained.

  Better tip her an extra buck, she’s extra friendly today, Dean thought. He didn’t recall hearing about the flu until today. He sat in the booth waiting for his food, thinking that was probably it. Frank must be down with that new flu bug and had forgotten to call him; Frank was becoming awfully forgetful lately.

  Maybe I should get the flu shot? Naw, he wasn’t one to hop on the bandwagon, but the look in LuLu’s eyes seemed to be a warning of sorts. Hmm, he thought about it while rubbing his chin. He did believe in synchronicity. And when things happened “in threes,” he took it as a sign, perhaps a sign from up above, that it was meant to be.

  And it was the third time today that he’d been advised to get the flu shot. First, there had been the annoying email from his doctor stating he was in the High Risk Category and needed to get the flu shot ASAP. Then CNN had reported that the World Health Organization issued an Epidemic Alert advising everyone to get the new flu shot. And now, LuLu, his waitress for some time, had just asked if he’d gotten the flu shot.

  Might as well go to the Rite Aid down the street and get it over with. Otherwise, he would have to take another trip to Woodland. He really was anxious to get back to his cabin and install a new set of spark plugs on the 18 footer Glastron boat he had just bought for a song and dance. Another trip to town would just hold him back one more day. And one more wasted day—well, it was one less day for an old man like himself, one less day he’d have to cruise around in the boat he had so meticulously refurbished, the Twinkle Me Mary.

  Dean reluctantly pulled his Ford pickup into the Rite Aid parking lot. What a mess, he thought. It seemed like every intersection was stuck in gridlock. Another reason he hated the city; although, he wasn’t sure if the small town of Woodland, California was considered an official city. Still, he spent as little time as possible here, preferring his rural cabin in Winters, near the meandering Putah Creek.

  “What in tarnation?” Dean mumbled. The pharmacy’s line stretched all the way down to the cosmetics aisle, maybe twenty people or so, all coughing and sniffling and fidgeting in the long, wavering line.

  Don’t have time for this bullcrap! I could forgo the shot and get some Airborne tablets instead. That stuff usually does the trick. He decided to see how fast the line moved and distracted himself by mentally planning his first outing in the Twinkle Me Mary, named after his late wife, Mary.

  The line seemed to have stalled, and Dean grasped the fact that the news media wasn’t over-sensationalizing for once. Apparently, from what he’d overheard, most of the people were here for the new flu shot. The Super-Summer flu seemed to be hitting Woodland with a vengeance. It made him wonder what it was like in the large cities like Sacramento and San Francisco.

  The person in front of him, a lady wearing a thick, atrocious-pink cardigan, turned around in the line and stared at Dean with vacant blink-less eyes. To his horror, the woman’s bloodshot eyes actually appeared to be bulging-out of their sockets. The lady opened her mouth as if to say something to him; instead, a ferocious sneeze spewed out, causing Dean to cringe as the minuscule droplets misted his face.

  “Christ on a pony,” Dean managed to say, turning his head in disgust and dug around in his pocket for a handkerchief. Suddenly the lady in the atrocious-pink cardigan began twitching and left the line in a trance-like state. Guess I’ve just been exposed to it. And for crying out loud, why’s she wearing a sweater in August? Must be damn near a hun’erd degrees outside.

  Heck, if I didn’t have the flu before, I sure as hell have it now. That got him to thinkin’ how many days in advance the flu shot needed to be administered in order for it to be effective. Forget it. Airborne will do me just fine. The real truth was Dean could not stand waiting in that line for another second. He needed to do something to forget the wretched feeling he had felt when the lady in the atrocious-pink cardigan had sneezed—on him.

  While I’m here, might as well pick up a carton of ice cream too. He turned down the ice cream aisle and noticed a man squirming around on the shiny, waxed floor. “You all right?” Dean asked and looked around for a clerk. “Sir?”

  The man jerked about on the floor in a series of peculiar positions, almost as if standing on two legs was a new thing for him, until he finally managed to straighten out his buckling legs. Dean was about to ask again if he was all right but was stupefied by the man’s bulging bloodshot eyes. Dean watched as the man’s pupils began swirling and dilating, turning from dark red to black oily-like marbles.

  The sick man seemed to be in a trance—like the lady in the atrocious-pink cardigan. Abruptly, the man pounced at him. Dean, typically quick on his feet and always fast to react, managed to dodge him, causing the man to crash head first into the frosted glass doors of the Dreyer’s ice cream case. Dean stared in complete bewilderment as the man crumpled back down to the floor and twitched around like a severed electrical wire.

  Might want to forgo the ice cream today. Didn’t my doctor just blatantly announce I’m in the High Risk Category? Come to think of it, what the hell is a High Risk Category? Dean pondered and rushed down the next few aisles until he finally found a clerk.

  “There’s a sick man in the ice cream isle,” Dean reported, concerned for the sick fella.

  “Haven’t you heard—everyone’s sick.” The clerk stomped off, leaving Dean befuddled, astonished with the clerk’s rude behavior.

  Sure must be hard to find good help these days. Dean shook his head in disbelief and decided to get the hell out of the store, no time for ice cream or Airborne today; it wasn’t worth the hassle.

  As Dean walked out of the Rite Aid, he heard an announcement over the intercom: “We apologize for the inconvenience; however, no more flu shots are available today. We should have more by Friday.”

  Dean paused by the front entrance, momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun’s glare and reached for the sunglasses in his front shirt pocket. From out of nowhere, a thunderous crashing sound ripped through the air. He jumped back as a wave of heat rushed over his entire body.

  Flames erupted from under the hood of the white SUV that had just slammed into the metal bollards that protected the store’s entrance from the parking lot. A foot closer and Dean wouldn’t have to worry about getting the Super-Summer flu. He darted over to the driver.

  “What in tarnation?” No one was in the SUV.

  With his sunglasses on, he now had a clear view of the shopping center’s parking lot: it looked like an insane asylum. People seemed to be running about in no particul
ar direction and for no apparent reason. They all appeared to be, for lack of a better word: crazy. Some people ran towards the store, and some ran past the parking lot towards the jammed intersection. Others just seemed to be aimlessly wandering about as if they had no place to go at all. Still even more bizarre, he couldn’t help but notice several people sprawled out on the hot parking lot pavement, convulsing about in circles like the fella in the ice cream aisle.

  Dean snapped out of his gaze-of-disbelief when he saw a child, a young girl about three or four years old, dive to the hot pavement and latch onto a man’s ankle—apparently with her teeth. The man, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and muscle shirt was obviously furious and let out several whooping yells and started kicking the girl mercilessly.

  “HEY, Stop!” Dean’s shouts were drowned out by the madness. Nobody seemed to hear him. Nobody even seemed to care.

  He decided to go check on the girl whose face looked like it might be bashed-in, but something juddering about on the crosswalk grabbed his attention: a cell phone. In all the craziness, someone must have dropped their phone. Perfect, he could call the police. While he stood at the edge of the crosswalk considering the phone, his eyes did a double take as a fancy, black sports car went plowing through the crosswalk a few feet in front of him. If he hadn’t stopped to pick up the phone . . . That could have been me. What’s happening here?

  Dean stood calmly on the sidewalk analyzing the mayhem that occurred in front of him, around him—everywhere. Then he noticed the most inhumane thing of all: the few people who weren’t running around the parking lot like lunatics, instead of helping the injured; they just stood around holding their cell phones up in the air as if they were possessed by the damn things. Don’t tell me they’re actually recording this? “What’s wrong with you people?” Dean muttered under his breath.