The first three chapters of “Comes The Dark”

My original plan was to post the first three chapters of my book before it was released here on my blog, but my publisher did such a great job of getting the book out and available so quickly that I didn’t get the chance to post chapter 3 before this whirlwind of events started happening.  So I thought I would post all three chapters here, back to back, to save you the trouble of searching for the previous chapters further back in the blog.  My hope is that if you like the first few chapters, you will give my book a shot and buy it over on Amazon.  It can be found there at http://www.amazon.com/Comes-Dark-Zombie-Patrick-DOrazio/dp/1453701281/ref=sr_1_11?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1280498.  It will also be available on the Kindle within the next week to ten days and there are rumblings that it may be available on http://www.barnesandnobles.com as well as the Nook down the road.  In addition to this, you can order the book through any brick and mortar bookstore by requesting it through the Ingrams catalog and referencing the ISBN number, which is:

• ISBN-10: 1453701281
• ISBN-13: 978-1453701287

Sorry, I am not sure how ISBN numbers work, so I figured I would post both of them.

Anyway, without further ado, here are the first three chapters of Comes The Dark.

Chapter 1

Jeff bit his lip as he tried to maintain a grip on the aluminum baseball bat in his sweaty hands.  He splashed through a slick puddle of blood as he continued running down the sidewalk.

The backpack jounced up and down and he slipped his hand around the strap to make sure it stayed in place.  The tin cans and boxes of crackers thumped in time to his footsteps.  Increasing his speed, he tried to suck in another lungful of air.

The howls of rage had grown distant but slowing down wasn’t an option.  Not until he was safely back inside.  As he crested the hill a smile tugged at Jeff’s lips—there were only a few more houses to pass and he would be home free.

Pulling tighter on the frayed strap hanging over his shoulder, he moved onto the grass to avoid hearing his own footsteps.  Eyes darting back and forth, he spied no movement as his house came into view.   It was hard to believe it had only been an hour since he had crept out to go on a hunt for food.  He spotted the dark brown side door, which stood in stark contrast to the light beige siding that surrounded it.

Skidding to a halt in front of the door, Jeff’s eyes narrowed.  There was a smudge near the knob.  A rusty red finger-shaped outline caused his heart to skip a beat.

Feeling a rush of white hot terror flooding his system, Jeff looked around, eyes shifting to the bushes at the back of his neighbor’s house.  He could feel his heart racing and pulse accelerate as he tried to keep his breathing normal.  Turning quickly, he looked across the street at the other houses, scanning for movement among the shadows.  Ignoring the moans and howls off in the distance, he tried to reassure himself no one was watching or waiting to pounce.  Taking a deep breath, he tried to tell himself that everything was going to be okay.

The smudge had not been there before.  He recalled staring at the door after shutting it earlier and wondering if leaving, even if for a little while, was such a good idea.  There had been no scratches and certainly no blood on the door when he left.  That was not something the detail oriented man would have missed.

Jeff dug into his pocket and curled his fingers around the house key.  Regardless of whoever…or whatever…had left the mark on the door all that mattered now was getting back inside before he was discovered out here.

As the key touched the knob and the door moved slightly, Jeff’s eyes widened and his hand began to quiver.  The door was already unlocked.  Worse, it wasn’t even shut.  He began to shake his head and whisper “no” over and over.  It couldn’t be.

Jeff knew he had locked the door when he left.  He had hugged Ellen, told Frankie and Mary to behave for mommy, and then…

A cold, stark fear for his family’s safety overrode the slow itch of terror in Jeff’s gut as he slammed his fist into the door and burst into the garage.  Staring into the darkened space, he nearly stumbled but somehow his watery legs managed to hold him up.

Mark, his next door neighbor, was bent over Ellen, teeth buried in her neck.  A wide pool of bright red fluid gushed from where he gnawed at her torn flesh.

Jeff froze in the doorway as he desperately tried to comprehend what he was seeing.  The guy he had shared a few beers with over discussions about politics, baseball, and the Horton’s Rottweiler crapping in their yards was tearing into his wife’s throat.  Jeff couldn’t quite see Ellen’s face because Mark’s blood-drenched hand was clasped over her eyes and nose, but it was definitely her.  There was a faint scent of jasmine in the air mixed in with the rich coppery scent of blood.  It was that perfume she always wore.  The tenth anniversary diamond ring he had given her a year before sparkled in a splash of sunlight as her arm flopped to the side.  Jeff’s eyes gravitated to the ring but it was hard to catch more than a brief glimpse of it as his wife’s fingers twitched violently in response to the tearing motion of Mark’s teeth.

The door, already forgotten, banged against the wall.  Jeff did not hear the sound over the pounding of his heart but Mark did.  The grayish figure lifted his head and hissed at Jeff, his teeth caked with bits of Ellen’s flesh.  Ragged runners of gruel bubbled from his mouth as the lunatic huddled protectively over his prize.

All Jeff could think was that this was madness.  In a few seconds Mark would wink at him and Ellen would sit up and say something like “gotcha.”  Then they would all laugh at how gullible Jeff had been to even believe for a second that any of this was real.

But as waves of horror washed over him, Jeff tried and failed to deny the reality of what he was seeing.  Mark’s milky white eyes peered up at him; dark pinpricks that had been his pupils the only color remaining in them.  Forcing himself to look away from the crumpled form of his wife, Jeff stared at his neighbor once again.  Mark’s shirt was torn open and hung slack on his oddly colored flesh.  There were various sores and open wounds displayed on his neck, arms, and chest.  Greenish-black ooze stained the infected man’s clothing and as he began to lever his body up, the stench slammed into Jeff like a sledgehammer.

Jeff wanted to run.  He wanted to run screaming from this place and never look back.  But as he shifted his gaze back to the only woman he had ever loved, a hundred different memories flooded into his mind, blotting out the image of the gore-stained lump of flesh that remained behind: kissing her for the first time at midnight on New Year’s Eve…burning the dinner he had cooked for her on the night he proposed…watching her and Mary drench the kitchen in flour when they tried to bake cookies together.  There was an echoing scream rattling inside Jeff’s head but he couldn’t get it past his lips.  All those memories, along with his wife, had been obliterated in the blink of an eye.

Jeff tried to take a step back but discovered his shoulder was pressed against the doorjamb, blocking his escape.  His legs had moved of their own volition, dragging the stunned survivor backwards until there was nowhere left to go.  As Mark finally rose up and moved slowly toward him, Jeff realized he couldn’t breathe anymore.

Mark’s eyes fixed on Jeff and he felt his legs and arms stiffen in terror.  The lunatic’s pupils were almost hypnotic as they burrowed into him.  There was great pain and rage in those eyes, but more than anything, there was hunger…a profound hunger that could devour the world if given the chance.

As the ghoul dragged its ruined body over Ellen’s corpse it tripped and staggered.  Jeff blinked as he watched the bogeyman right himself awkwardly.  In that moment, it was as if the world suddenly snapped back into place.  Mark had turned into some kind of monster to be feared, that much was true, but he was also the bastard that had murdered his wife.  Watching carefully as Mark pulled his back foot over Ellen’s prone form, Jeff gripped the baseball bat tightly as he got into a wobbly batter’s stance.

The swing was not his best but it still connected with Mark’s arm, sending him sideways.  There was a muffled thump as the bat connected with the infected man’s spoiled flesh.  Jeff’s eyes widened when Mark did not react to the painful blow, his milky-white eyes never losing sight of their target.  Adjusting, Mark got his feet back underneath him and kept coming.

The second swing was stronger, aimed at Mark’s face.  It connected with the ghoul’s neck instead and there was an audible crack as bones broke.  Mark’s head twisted, wrapping around the bat as his skin stretched and tore.  His knees buckled but he did not fall over immediately.  Instead, one of his arms shot out in an effort to grab a hold of Jeff’s shirt.

Letting go of the bat, Jeff pushed back against the wall even harder, doing his best to burrow through the drywall.  The bat clattered to the floor and Mark took a single wavering step forward before collapsing.  His head slammed into the concrete with an audible thud.

Jeff stood stiffly next to the slumped over body for what seemed an eternity.  He stared into his neighbor’s eyes as a torrent of emotions poured over him.  Irrationally, he feared the repercussions of murdering his neighbor though Mark would probably argue that he wasn’t dead if he could still speak.  Instead, the ghastly creature stared balefully up at Jeff as small noises burbled from his shattered throat.  Unable to move his body, Mark continued to grind his teeth and hiss, unchecked rage carved on his face.

When Jeff’s heart rate settled and he started to breathe normally he unglued his eyes from the man at his feet and looked at his wife, whose appendages were no longer twitching.  Crumpled, with legs bunched up underneath her, Jeff could see the rubber burn marks on the floor beneath her beat up sneakers.  It was clear she had struggled fiercely, even as Mark sunk his teeth into her throat.  She was always a fighter, he thought.  Now that Ellen’s face was no longer covered Jeff could see that her eyes weren’t shut, a look of terror still on her face.  There was agony in those green eyes…an agony that must have been the last thing she had felt.

Jeff’s knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground.  Slamming his eyes shut he willed the horrible images of Ellen’s death that were burned into his retinas to go away.  He felt dizzy and nauseous but since he had not eaten in nearly a day there would probably be nothing but dry heaves when the sickness finally overpowered him.

That was when he heard a blood curdling scream from down the street.

It had taken every last bit of his willpower to not curl up in a ball when he heard the noises coming from less than a block away.  They had tracked him down.  By the time he levered himself up from the floor and moved past Mark to slam and lock the door, he could hear them getting closer.  His neighbors were closing in on the house.  Jeff didn’t have the strength to look outside and see how many there were.  Instead, he leaned against the door, panting and exhausted as the moans grew louder.

Raising his head, his eyes suddenly darted around and his body tensed.  He tried to blot out the noises outside so he could capture another sound just hitting his ears.  He looked at the door leading into the house.

Adrenaline flooded Jeff’s system again as reality came crashing down.  The sound coming through the door was clearer than the muffled roars of anger and hunger bellowing from outside and yet…it sounded very familiar.

He began to hyperventilate, shaking his head in disbelief.  How could he have been so stupid?  How could he have blanked out and forgotten?

But the blood splatters in the laundry room confirmed what the cold, calculating part of Jeff’s brain already understood but the rest of him refused to believe.

Mark wasn’t the only one that had gotten into the house.

Jeff flew through the door.  Everything inside him screamed that he had to move quickly, get inside, and stop these marauders.  But as he heard the moans coming from upstairs he feared he was already too late.

Jeff steeled himself as he rushed inside; hoping against hope that he was wrong, and that somehow these monsters that had once been human had not found his children’s hiding place upstairs.

A short time later Jeff returned to the garage, his eyes dull, his arms splattered with blood.  The aluminum bat was slung over his shoulder, dripping a thick, tar-like substance.

He ignored the pounding and screams of rage outside the garage door.  They had found him, after all this time.  The insanity outside had finally broken into his home and annihilated everything he knew.

As he slumped to the wooden steps, the small window on the side door shattered and was quickly followed by the sound of fists thumping on the thick slab of wood nailed behind it.  Jeff idly wondered how long his jury-rigged barricade would hold up and if it really mattered anymore.  He set the bat down and put his chin in his hands, propping his elbows on his knees.

As he sat listening to the scratching and clawing, interspersed with ragged fists splattering against the wood, he glanced down at the two bodies in the garage.  He took a deep breath into his lungs, doing his best to ignore the thick taste of death that came with it.  Mark was facing away so at least the man wasn’t staring at him.

His eyes slid from Mark to the pile of gas cans in the corner.  Several propane tanks sat next to the smaller canisters, along with some other odds and ends Jeff had picked up a few weeks back when things had started getting dicey.  He shook his head in disbelief.  Back then their worst concern was potential power outages and being forced to use the barbeque grill for all their cooking.

His eyes left the pile of supplies and moved back toward his wife.  Jeff wondered when he was going to cry.  His eyes were still dry, even as he looked at the ragged blood filled hole Mark had left where her throat had been.  He hadn’t cried inside the house, even as he cradled his dead daughter and whispered her name over and over again.

The pounding outside was getting louder.  It sounded like there was an army of them out there.  They hadn’t moved to the front yard yet, but it wouldn’t be long.  Then it was only a matter of time before they tore through the hastily nailed up boards and plywood covering the windows and found their way inside.

Twisting his neck around to loosen up the stiffness, Jeff stood up.  Gazing down on his wife, he recalled how her eyes used to sparkle like a thousand tiny emeralds.  That green was gone now, replaced with the telltale cloudiness that warned of infection.

When her hand twitched Jeff backpedaled, slipping on the stairs and falling hard on his ass.  Slowly, he felt his body grow cold as it became clear what was happening.  Head slumping in defeat, he rubbed his eyes and knew what he had to do.

Her hand twitched again.  Ellen was waking up.

Grabbing for his bat, Jeff cradled it to his chest.  His hands felt weak and useless, but he held on to the aluminum cylinder like a security blanket.

Suddenly, a sound like someone ramming their head against the side door made him jump.  Looking over, he saw that the wood was starting to splinter.

Spying Mark out of the corner of his eye, Jeff saw that despite a broken neck, his neighbor had managed to shift his head enough so he could stare at Jeff again.  The hunger in those eyes was undeniable and Jeff knew he couldn’t bare it if he had to see that same look in Ellen’s eyes.

Taking another deep breath, he stood and lifted the baseball bat.  The fear was gone, replaced with a depthless despair.  His wife’s legs were starting to move.  Her eyes were still vacant and empty, but wouldn’t be for long.

“I love you honey,” Jeff choked out as he felt the strength return to his hands.  He gripped the bat tighter and raised it above his head.

The first swing took every ounce of courage he had.

The ones after that came a lot easier.

Chapter 2

Ten minutes later Jeff was in the kitchen, stuffing the remnants of his dwindling food supply into his son’s backpack.  There wasn’t much left, just some half-eaten boxes of cereal and dry noodles to gnaw on.  That was what it had come to.  It was why he had left the house to search for supplies.  Jeff blinked as he suddenly realized his family had died for a few cans of beans and some crackers.

He angrily jammed the last of his meager rations into the bag and ran toward the steps leading to the second floor.  From the back of the house came the sound of more glass shattering.  He had covered the big picture window with plywood and it was holding for the moment.  The wood vibrated under a barrage of hammering fists but stayed in place.  He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Glad to get away from the stench of infection filtering through the windows and doors, he took a right into his office, trying his best to ignore the shattered door on the left side of the hallway and the carnage that lay beyond it.

Rummaging through one of his bookshelves he found a souvenir mug and dumped its contents on the desk.  Sifting through the coins, bits of paper, and other faint memories, Jeff spotted a tiny key.  Grabbing it, he went to the top of the bookshelf and pulled down a lock box.  Unlocking it quickly he spotted the gun.  The tiny pewter weapon with the black grip was still in its original box.  Jeff looked at the etched wording on the barrel: MODEL RAVEN CAL-.25 AUTO. He picked up the small clip sitting next to it and slid it into the gun.  He nearly laughed.  It was a pea-shooter that carried a meager six bullets in the clip.  Shoving it in his pocket, he promptly forgot about it.

Moving to the other side of the desk he began to rifle through it.  After grabbing a pocket knife and the Mag-Lite, Jeff looked around his office.  That was it.  He sighed and shook his head.  He was no survivalist but a baseball bat, a purse gun, and heavy flashlight probably weren’t going to get him very far.

As he turned to leave he spied something else on one of the book shelves and stared at it for a moment.  It was the photo of Ellen and the kids on their last vacation at the lake.  Jeff remembered taking the picture.  It had been early, maybe about six a.m.  Ellen had been trying to drag the kids out of bed for ten minutes.  They didn’t want to go out on the boat and didn’t want to swim.  They just wanted to sleep.  She started tickling them and after a couple of minutes the three were wrestling in a tangle of sheets, screaming and giggling.  Taking the picture had been spontaneous; Jeff had grabbed the camera out of his bag without thinking.  They were smiling, laughing, their eyes lost in a moment of pure bliss.  When he showed Ellen the picture she hated it.  Her hair was a mess and she had no makeup on.  When he put it on display in his office she was angry until he explained.  “Everything that matters to me is in that picture.  It’s you and the kids, happy.  That’s all I care about.” She never said another word about it.

Jeff’s fingers quivered as he traced the outline of their faces.  Another angry scream filtered from below and he tore his eyes away from the picture.  Cramming it into his pocket, he headed back downstairs.

It’s time to go.

The urgent thought beat out a staccato rhythm inside his head as he made it back to the main floor.  Rushing into the garage he could hear the roar outside.  They were actually starting to throw their bodies against the side door now.  The sound of them crashing against the house was nearly overwhelming but Jeff ignored it and tossed his small amount of supplies into the minivan.  Snatching up the baseball bat he ran back inside.

He was out of breath as he got to the front door.  Bending at the knees, he tried sucking in as much air as possible and tried to settle down.  The noise at the front of the house wasn’t nearly as bad.  The mob had not spread to the front door yet, which worked well with his hastily cobbled together plan.  Bending over, he snatched up the hammer dropped there a few minutes before and started prying at the two by four nailed across the door.

It took some effort but within a couple of minutes the board was down and the only thing that stood between Jeff and the outside world was a deadbolt.

Digging into another pocket he pulled out the key to the car sitting in the driveway.  Palming the dark plastic key fob, he pressed the red alarm button.  Suddenly, an urgent honking cut through the tumult of screams and howls that had nearly driven Jeff’s family mad over the past few weeks.  For a moment it seemed as if this new noise, so shocking and ordinary, would overpower all others.  But it was not to be.  A tide of rage carried the volume of his neighbors above that of the horn as they began attacking the car.

“Stupid mother-fuckers,” he snorted with disdain.  After listening for a few more seconds he pressed the red button again and the alarm cut off, replaced with the sound of wet slaps on the hood of the Impala.  Glass shattered and Jeff could imagine a thick press of bodies trying to get at whoever had been honking the horn.

He strained to hear as much as possible.  There was frustration and rage, but more importantly, he heard no one on the porch ready to punch a hole through the front door.  Taking a deep breath, he slowly let it out as he scooped up the baseball bat and put his hand on the deadbolt.  Turning his head, Jeff took one last look around the house.  He wanted to remember it as it had once been and not what it was about to become.  Nodding to assure himself, he tried to keep his breathing steady as he turned to face the door.

Flipping the dead bolt, he tensed as his hand slipped down to the knob.

“Well, here goes nothing.”

Jeff opened his front door.

Chapter 3

A wall of sound washed over Jeff.  The depth of the noise was profound and he felt as if he was on a stage, the world around him vibrating with excitement.  His skin contracted around every hair on his body all at once.  It was almost painful as the goose bumps puckered his flesh and the sound jarred his bones.

There was the smell as well.  It had been out there before, when he had slithered through the neighborhood, but nothing like this.  The stench, the miasma from a hundred infected and befouled bodies, had no discretion as it poured over him, baptizing him in its corruption.

Opening the door hadn’t drawn any attention but as he let go of the knob it slammed against the wall, making a loud thumping noise as the door slowly began moving back toward Jeff.  He jumped slightly and swung his head toward the mass of stiffened bodies milling around his car.

The mob turned as one to stare at him.  The sounds, the hissing and moaning, suddenly stopped as the corrupt shifted their gazes from the car they had been demolishing to face the man standing in the open doorway.

None were on the porch.  They were busy climbing all over the car, trying to capture the little gremlin inside terrorizing them with its bleating horn.  Some were closer, shambling on the front lawn, but were still a few feet away.  Jeff’s heart raced but it felt like time had begun to slow.  His vision dimmed and the dread that had been pouring over him like warm molasses began to evaporate.

Move.

He caught something out of the corner of his eye beyond the crowded front yard.  When his eyes tried to follow it, seeking out the blur of motion, it was no longer there.  But it had been; he was sure.  It was something that could move much faster than his neighbors.  They were slow and sluggish, but whatever he had seen moved with a fluid grace.

Move!

There it was again, at the back of the crowd but getting closer.  He could see glimmers of light flicker between the gaps in the mass of bodies.  Whatever was making the shadows dance cut smoothly through the sluggish creatures on Jeff’s lawn as it slid closer.  He heard a blood curdling scream.

“MOVE!”

He barely recognized his own voice.  The fury of the word was jolting; setting him in motion as the mob surged forward, closing the distance to the front door.  Stepping back into the house he spent a split second trying to rediscover what had caused the blur of motion at the periphery of his vision, but it was already gone.

The first group of neighbors was almost at the door, close enough that two in front were leaning in to take ragged swipes at Jeff.  They missed as he quickly stepped back inside the house.  Their groans merged with the others but Jeff could have sworn he heard a different tenor to their gurgling cries.  They were excited to be this close to someone still warm and breathing.  He continued to move backwards into the foyer.

Turning, he ran to the stairs and jumped onto the couch he had hastily set in front of them, stepping on an arm rest and vaulting over it.  He stood watching as more bodies poured in through the front door, scratching and clawing at each other as they tried to force their way through the narrow opening.  They were a crazed mob, frothing at the mouth and howling at him.  The first few were already at the couch, trying to get over, around, or through it.  They smashed, clawed, and tore at it, angry that something stood between them and their prey.

“That’s it, you bastards!  Come and get me!”

He had to yell to be heard over the pounding fists and squeals of anticipation.  The moans were louder inside.  But when Jeff spoke they seemed to go still and the noise died down for a moment.  He had their complete attention.

He continued to back up the stairs as more bodies crammed into the foyer and spread into the dining and living rooms.  He wouldn’t be surprised if there were enough of them to fill the entire first floor.  One knocked over the vase on the end table near the door and it instantly turned to powered shards underfoot.  A few of the ghoulish apparitions appeared to be distracted, wandering toward the dining room table and grabbing at things like they were at a rummage sale.  The rest, however, continued to crowd around the base of the staircase, staring balefully up at him.  They raised their hands, reaching toward Jeff with unimaginable need.

The weaker ones were crushed underneath the churning mass of bodies as they poured over the couch.  It looked like some sort of blender, where whatever was dropped into the spinning vortex was sucked to the bottom to be pulverized, but in this case it was only the smaller forms, children and the mutilated, being sucked beneath the trampling feet.

The first stiff form able to make it past the couch got a shot in the mouth from Jeff’s baseball bat.  It was a world class upper cut that shattered the woman’s jawbone and knocked her back into the crowd.  She knocked another person flat and Jeff lost sight of her as she was swallowed in the mass of pulsating bodies.  The others ignored her demise as they pressed against the couch.  As three more bodies flopped over it Jeff rushed to the second floor landing.

Ignoring his shaking hands and ragged breathing, he pushed the massive bookshelf that stood next to the stairs toward the top step.  He had dragged it there a few weeks back as a precautionary measure in case the infected managed to break in the house.  In hindsight, it had been foolish to hope that mere furniture could hold back the horde, but he was still glad he had moved it into position.

Jeff felt a white hot flash of fear at the sound of a loud grunt nearby.  The infected were almost to the top of the steps.  He responded with his own desperate grunt as the bookshelf teetered over and started falling sideways down the steps.

The loud crash he had expected was muffled by the wall of flesh the heavy cherry bookshelf landed on.  It smashed into the two leaders of the pack, driving them back into the convulsing crowd.  As he watched, Jeff eyes widened in surprise.  The six foot tall piece of furniture did not fall to the ground but hovered as the monsters behind it struggled to free themselves of its bulk.

The bodies were piling up behind the bookshelf and he could see it slowly turning like a heavy door being pushed toward the wall.  It had smashed a few of them pretty good but was no deterrent to the rest.  They were still coming.

As Jeff turned and began running toward the master bedroom he heard a thud as the bookshelf finally hit the floor.  They had pushed it out of the way and were on the move again.

He screamed a few expletives as encouragement, though none were needed, before slamming the hollow door to his bedroom shut and clicking the button-lock on the knob.  As Jeff moved toward his closet he could hear his neighbors screaming in frustration from down the hall.

Moving past the heavy chair he had put in the closet, he pushed on it, forcing the door shut with its bulk.  The large walk in closet went pitch black and he nearly yelped when the first fist slam into the bedroom door.

The darkness felt overwhelming but Jeff knew how little time he had.  He felt his way past a minefield of shoes and piles of clothing strewn on the floor.

Finding the back wall, Jeff dropped quickly to his knees, setting the baseball bat down as he began sliding his hands over the carpeted floor.  Where is it?

He jumped again as the master bedroom door splintered and quickly broke.  The mob was already forcing their way past the shattered remains of the feeble barrier and clambering into the bedroom.  They would be at the closet door in less than a minute but that was all the time Jeff thought he needed, if he could ever find what he was looking for.

Cursing under his breath, he began tossing shoes out of the way.  He knew the spot on the floor was not covered up but could feel panic setting in as he continued his furious search.

Boom!

Jeff let out an involuntary yelp of surprise as the closet door vibrated in its frame.  There were excited moans beyond the door, as if his neighbors knew he was caught like a rat in a trap.  It would be mere seconds before he was in their grasp.

“How in the world did you know I was in here, you stupid bastards!?” Jeff screamed as he frantically continued his search.  His words echoed in the small, confined space and filtered out into the bedroom, where squeals of delight at hearing his voice cascaded back in on him.

He heard the chair move slightly across the carpet, inching backwards as the press of bodies crammed against the door began forcing their way in.

“I mean, Jesus!  You fuckers can’t even turn a goddamn doorknob anymore but you can sniff me out in a matter of seconds?  What the hell?” Jeff’s voice cracked as he spoke, his frayed nerves nearly past the point of no return as he clawed blindly at the carpet.

The chair slid another few inches inward and with it came a splinter of light from the bedroom.  Immediately, Jeff saw what he had been searching for, a few inches to his right.  He whimpered in relief as he pulled the hinged door in the floor open.

The clothes shoot was something he had built shortly after they had moved in, when Ellen realized the laundry room was directly below their closet.  It made the transfer of dirty clothes a breeze.

He stared down at the washer and dryer.  Breathing a quick sigh of relief when he saw that no one had wandered into the small room off the garage, he quickly swung his legs over and down through the hole.

Twisting around as he lowered himself through the narrow opening, Jeff saw the chair get pushed completely out of the way of the closet door.  The first shadowy figure stumbled into the room, falling inward, pushed by another four stiffs behind it.  Jeff snatched up his baseball bat as he contorted his hips in an effort to get his mid-section through the tight gap in the floor.

His neighbors turned as one toward him, their eyes going wide with excitement as they saw the man trapped in the corner.  Their potent smell blasted him, curdling his stomach.  It was like a landfill, stockyard, and a mass grave all wrapped up in one.  As they reached for him, Jeff screamed and felt something give.  The sides of the laundry chute scraped his sides but as he landed on top of the washing machine he heard the spring loaded door on the shoot slam shut above his head.

He slid off the washer.  There were cries of outrage from above.  They were already scraping at the small door, desperate to open it.

The sounds on the first floor were overwhelming as he stared at the kitchen door.  Beyond were those inhuman things…probably more than a hundred.  Jeff hoped silently that they were still climbing the steps and cramming themselves into the various bedrooms on the top floor in a futile effort to find him.

He grabbed the gas can he had left in the room and opened it.  The smell of the fuel was pure and intoxicating compared to the noxiously rich smell of death now permeating the house.  He splashed the flammable liquid on the walls, watching as it ate at the traces of blood the first set of intruders had left behind.  He drained the can, splashing the last bit of it on the ceiling, specifically the hinged door above the washer.

The shoot door opened slightly and then slapped back shut.  A dark smile crossed Jeff’s lips.  He had put a set of really tight springs on the sucker to discourage his kids from playing with it.  The clumsy bastards upstairs were having a hell of a time trying to get a grip on it because of that.

Setting the gas can down, he picked up the road flare he had also tossed in the room.  Cracking the door leading to the garage, he relaxed slightly as he saw that the side door had not been breached.  In fact, it appeared as if no one was pounding on it anymore.  Wedging his foot in the door to keep it open, he turned to face the kitchen.

There was only one thing left to do.

Pulling the cap off the road flare, it burst to life and startled Jeff with its ferocity.  Quickly, he touched it to a rag he had soaked in gasoline that sat on top of the washer and watched it burst into flames.  Reaching for the knob on the kitchen door, he opened it just wide enough to slip the flare through.  He heard it drop on the floor and quickly shut the door.

Snatching up his baseball bat, he used it to slide the flaming rag off the washer and directly into a puddle of gas on the floor.

“The house is all yours, guys.  Enjoy it,” he said as he scrambled into the garage.  He made sure the metal door was shut tight, knowing it would hold back the flames for a while.  As he slid into the minivan he thought about the rest of the gasoline he had drenched the house with, including the kitchen.  Along with the propane tanks he had opened in the bedrooms upstairs, it should create one hell of a bang.

August 4, 2010 | Categories: Comes The Dark | Tags: comes the dark, horror, Library of the Living Dead, writing, zombies | Leave a comment

Comes The Dark is now live on Amazon.com!

My first novel has hit amazon.com.  So if you’ve been waiting for it to arrive there, now is the time to get your copy.  Don’t wait, buy one today!  And once you’ve read it, please feel free to write a review on Amazon as well.

Thank you…oh, and here is the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Comes-Dark-Zombie-Patrick-DOrazio/dp/1453701281/ref=sr_1_26?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1280505117&sr=1-26

July 30, 2010 | Categories: Comes The Dark | Tags: comes the dark, horror, Library of the Living Dead, writing, zombies | Leave a comment

Copies of my book arrived today!

Copies of Comes The Dark arrived in the mail today, which may seem like not a big deal, but given that this is my first published novel, it is HUGE for me.  That this thing is real and not just something that I created in my imagination, but is something that is tangible and can be shared with everyone else out there feels pretty dang remarkable.

July 22, 2010 | Categories: Comes The Dark | Tags: comes the dark, horror, Library of the Living Dead, writing, zombies | 6 Comments

Introducing: Comes The Dark

This section of my blog is going to be dedicated specifically to my first novel, Comes The Dark, which is being released by Library of the Living Dead Press later in 2010.

At its most basic, CTD is the story of a man who has lost everything in a world that has already rapidly deteriorated to the point where it is barely recognizable anymore.  A virus is at the root of humanity’s destruction and those infected are turned into undead monsters that seek only to annihilate the few survivors left remaining.  My desire in creating this story was to try to better understand, from my own perspective, how much one person can take and how far they are willing to go to survive with barely a shred of hope for themselves and the rest of humanity.  What keeps them going?  Is is all fear, or perhaps is it anger at what has happened to them?  Is there any willingness to hope for something better despite there being no evidence that there is a reason to hope?

Certainly, this is a story about zombies, with all the harsh brutality you would expect from such a horror story, but my focus is on the living that inhabit this dead world.  How they interact with one another, how they cope, and how they fight to survive against nearly insurmountable odds.

Jeff Blaine, the main character, is a typical guy who leads a typical life.  Before the story begins, he has a decent job, a house in the suburbs, a wife, two kids, and nothing much else that makes him all that interesting to those around him.  While he considers himself a good guy, a nice guy, he has never really been put into a position that has forced him to be anything different than that.  Like most of us, he would like to believe he can handle pressure, but really, he doesn’t have much of an idea what type of person he might become if things really get bad.  He’s probably slightly more of a sinner than a saint, but again, he’s never had a major dilemma that would might test his moral fiber, so its easy for him to believe he would generally choose to do the right thing.

You would probably like Jeff if you met him.  He knows how to give a firm handshake and look you in the eye when he talks to you.  He learned early on how to give a good impression but to avoid being too flashy so that he stands out from the crowd.  He participated in a few activities in college to pad his resume but these days he’s not all that interested in being much of a joiner.  He is the guy who typically can find an excuse not to get involved with the Home Owner’s Association or to join the Rotary Club when a buddy or a neighbor approaches him. He’s willing to buy your daughter’s girl scout cookies but he hates the idea of volunteering his time at his church’s charity events.  He might fudge the amount he donates on his taxes but avoids anything more risky than that like the plague.

In other words, Jeff is pretty much your average guy…before the world falls apart.

And thus, the stage is set for the story.  You really don’t need to know much else in advance of reading the book, except perhaps for the description I created that will hopefully appear on the back cover of the book (stand by, because it still needs to go through the editing process!).   Stay tuned for a few select excerpts from the book in later postings, but for now, I leave you with this:

The end came with a whimper, not a bang. The mysterious virus came out of nowhere and engulfed the world in a matter of days.  Everyone who was infected seemed to die…and then rise again.  Governments collapsed, armies disappeared, and entire civilizations turned to dust as the human race tore itself to pieces.

Jeff Blaine had a good life: a beautiful wife, adorable children, and a nice house in the suburbs.  He liked his job, loved his family, and spent his lazy suburban Sundays out on the deck, barbequing with the neighbors.  Things were perfect until everything fell apart.  And no matter how hard Jeff tried, he could not spare his family from the horrors scratching at the door.

Now, with his family gone, his life in ruins, the only thing left is raw anger and pain.  As the world continues to sink into darkness, Jeff does as well.  So he ventures out into the desolation with no better plan than to destroy as many of the monsters that stole his life away before they destroy him as well.

But soon Jeff will discover other survivors unwilling to give up.  They will force him to decide whether or not to succumb to the venom that gnaws at his soul.  Should he continue to fight to survive, or succumb to the things that come with the dark?

February 24, 2010 | Categories: Comes The Dark | Tags: comes the dark, horror, Library of the Living Dead, writing, zombies | Leave a comment