Cryonic

  CRYONIC

  A ZOMBIE NOVEL

  TRAVIS BRADBERRY

  Bruyere

  Bruyere Publishing

  c/o Michael Schmidt

  11526 Sorrento Valley Road, Suite A-2

  San Diego, CA 92121

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases and author appearances, call 858-509-0582 x 250 or email [email protected]

  Copyright © 2013 by Travis Bradberry. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ISBN: 978-0974320656

  First Printing: 2013

  This book is dedicated to Maribel, my biggest fan.

  Contents

  Chapter 1.

  Chapter 2.

  Chapter 3.

  Chapter 4.

  Chapter 5.

  Chapter 6.

  Chapter 7.

  Chapter 8.

  Chapter 9.

  Chapter 10.

  Chapter 11.

  Chapter 12.

  Chapter 13.

  Chapter 14.

  Chapter 15.

  Chapter 16.

  Chapter 17.

  Chapter 18.

  Chapter 19.

  Chapter 20.

  Chapter 21.

  Chapter 22.

  Chapter 23.

  Chapter 24.

  Chapter 25.

  Chapter 26.

  Chapter 27.

  Chapter 28.

  Chapter 29.

  Chapter 30.

  Chapter 31.

  Chapter 32.

  Chapter 33.

  Chapter 34.

  Chapter 35.

  Chapter 36.

  Chapter 37.

  Chapter 38.

  Chapter 39.

  Chapter 40.

  Chapter 41.

  Chapter 42.

  Chapter 43.

  Chapter 44.

  Chapter 45.

  Chapter 46.

  Chapter 47.

  Chapter 48.

  Chapter 49.

  Chapter 50.

  Chapter 51.

  Chapter 52.

  Chapter 53.

  Chapter 54.

  Chapter 55.

  Chapter 56.

  Chapter 57.

  Chapter 58.

  Chapter 59.

  Chapter 60.

  Chapter 61.

  Chapter 62.

  Chapter 63.

  Chapter 64.

  Chapter 65.

  Chapter 66.

  Chapter 67.

  Chapter 68.

  1.

  I didn’t have the slightest inkling I was going to die that day. Though some will argue that I didn’t really experience death. The blood stopped coursing through my veins—this much is certain—just as it will some day for you, but there were no pearly gates, no departed loved ones guiding me into the light. While I was away, I experienced nothingness. Perhaps this was intentional, as the great cosmic scorekeeper knew I wasn’t finished walking the earth.

  I awoke to the dry howl of Santa Ana winds that snaked down through the coastal canyons on their way out to sea. The sagging backs of aging patio chairs fluttered nervously on the porch. I lived in a shingled Craftsman, with a sprawling deck that sat perilously on the edge of a tall sandstone bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A few years before, I’d outbid uppity suburbanites and wealthy retirees for the home. They’d have to find their status symbol elsewhere. I had but one favorite wave in San Diego, and my home was perched directly above it.

  I yanked the handle on the sliding door and stepped outside. The cold wind sent the hair on my bare arms bristling to attention. I took a gulp from my steaming morning coffee and observed the expectant crowd bobbing up and down amidst the crashing surf below. Most mornings, I would nurse my coffee and lament the burgeoning surfing population. I’d long for the days when a man could hit the waves with nothing but the dolphins to keep him company. But there was no bellyaching today; I had better plans.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and fumbled about before flicking it open with my thumb.

  “You up?” my son Colt’s voice buzzed from the tiny speaker.

  “I’m here in the car. Just about to start ’er up,” I lied.

  “All right, see you there.”

  I snapped the phone shut between my cheek and shoulder and took a final gulp from my coffee. I slammed the mug down onto the porch railing and scurried down the patio steps toward the open garage. Surfboards and wetsuits were strewn about as if the place had been ransacked. I grabbed what I needed and slid the boards and neoprene into the back of my truck.

  I threw the truck into gear and raced down the driveway. When I reached the bottom, I stomped on the brake and threw the truck into park. I hopped out of the truck and ran back up to the house through a biting gust of wind. I never left the house without kissing my wife first.

  She was curled up in the living room lounge chair reading a book. The rising sun cast a warm glow through the window behind her that made her look angelic. I snuck up behind her and draped my arms around her neck.

  “Royce Bruyere, what are you doing?” she cooed.

  “Just saying bye.”

  She dropped her book into her lap, turned, and kissed me on the mouth. “Be careful out there today, OK? I don’t like the sound of that wind.”

  “I will. I promise. See you at eight sharp.”

  When I pulled into the airfield parking lot, Colt was already inspecting the plane. A six-seater, the Cessna 206 was a lot of airplane for a guy who’d just earned his pilot’s license, but it left plenty of room for surfboards. Besides, I could afford it. I’d spent two decades building a software company from the ground up. Most of my competitors had lost fistfuls of other people’s cash, along with their companies, during the dot-com bubble, but I never succumbed to the temptation. I believed in bootstrapping it and being the master of your own destiny. These days, I spent more time in the water than in the office.

  Colt leaned against the plane’s protruding cowl while he checked the propeller blades for nicks. He was too focused on the task to see me walking toward him. I couldn’t help but admire my son. He looked much like I had in my early twenties—wide in the shoulders but lanky with long swinging arms like a gorilla. Colt’s jaw was wide and masculine, his face dotted with thick overgrown stubble. Bleached-blond tips of hair wormed out beneath his ball cap and fluttered in the wind.

  “She ready?” I asked.

  “Yup. Everything checks out.”

  I ran my hand delicately along the leading edge of the wing. Colt clasped my shoulder and jerked the door open.

  “Come on, old man. Let’s get to it!”

  Colt wore the halo of an only child. If he said the plane checked out, it was ready. Colt’s belongings rested neatly in the rear of the plane. I hustled to follow suit. I slipped my boards inside, threw wetsuits and bags on top, and jumped into the pilot’s seat. Most men my age lacked the spunk needed for a spur-of-the-moment surf trip with a twenty year old. I was narrowing in on fifty, but a lifetime consumed with surfing meant I looked and felt a decade younger. I was fit with a head of thick salt and pepper hair and light blue eyes that were a stark contrast to my sun-bronzed skin. My wife always said what attracted her to me was that I was blissfully unaware of my good looks. I thought she was just flattering me.

  I put my headset on, cleared my throat, and prepared to fly. When I turned the key, the engine choked slightly before firing up. The propeller roared to life and settled into an even hum. Moments later, we were bouncing down the runway. I eased back on the yoke, and the plane leapt into the air.

  We soared high until we crossed the border into Mexico, where we swung low above the rugged coastline of Northern Baja. The sea was a pristine
sheet of cobalt blue that stretched out to the horizon. Beneath us, a winter swell finished its three-thousand-mile journey from the heart of a storm near the Aleutians. The waves traveled together in uniform corduroy lines that rose tall as they rolled toward the shoreline.

  “Look at that, Dad . . . it’s firing,” Colt crowed with his nose pressed against the glass.

  “You ready for this?” I asked. “We’ll be on the ground in an hour.”

  Colt glared at me, scarcely taking his eyes off the water.

  “What? You still been getting waves, what with finals and all?”

  “Of course. I’ve always got time for a surf.”

  I grew warm with pride. This was a young man who had his priorities straight. We marveled at the scene below us with only the vibrating hum of the engine breaking the silence.

  We touched down in bouncing fits on a dusty airstrip in the middle of nowhere, its boundaries peppered with cacti and low-lying shrubs. The sandy dirt runway was soft and rutted. The only structure in sight was a weathered wooden lean-to alongside a rusting gas pump.

  As I parked the plane at the end of the runway, a tall Ford pickup with oversized tires came tearing down a small hill in our direction. I stretched over the seat into the back of the plane and grabbed a small duffel. The truck slid to a halt alongside us. A leg sporting a cowboy boot deftly kicked the door open, and the truck’s undersized occupant hopped out and landed firmly in the dust below.

  “¡Nacho!” I exclaimed. “¿Que onda gordo?”

  I was overjoyed by the sight of my old friend. Nacho was an ancient Mexican cowboy. His face bore deep lines and a withered complexion that exposed his age in ways his taut, muscular physique could not. A vigorous handshake quickly morphed into a man hug with lots of back patting.

  “Where you been, güero? How come you no visit México?”

  “Ay, no swell, amigo. No swell.”

  “I had to drive you truck three times to keep the báteria working.”

  “I know, I know. I’d rather be here than there, believe me, but the point doesn’t work unless it’s six foot. Oh, hey! I brought something for ya.”

  I reached into the duffel and pulled out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Nacho held the bottle of bourbon up with both hands and admired it as if it were a child.

  “Ay, Don Royce, thank you. Good boorbon no es easy to find here.”

  “I have something else for you, too, buddy.”

  I handed Nacho a Three Tenors CD.

  “¡Los Tres Tenores! Gracias.”

  Nacho paused. “¿Pues, no quieren surfiar?”

  Nacho had a point. It was nice to catch up, but we were burning precious daylight. I motioned to Colt. “Let’s go hit it so we can get back before dark. You know how much Mom hates us flying at night.”

  We loaded our gear in the truck and drove Nacho back to his ranch. Nacho hopped out and wished us well. I peeled out in the dirt and headed toward the beach.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you call Ignacio, Nacho?” Colt’s fingers danced nervously on the dashboard.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It just doesn’t seem right to call him that.”

  “Would you prefer I call him taco?” I kept my eyes fixed on the dirt road that wound back and forth through the chaparral. “Or maybe burrito?”

  Colt swallowed. “It’s just that I took this course on cultural diversity, and it sounds condescending. It’d be like him calling you hamburger or something.”

  “Or mac n’ cheese . . . no, no it’d be like him calling me pancakes.”

  I threw Colt a quick grin that failed to penetrate his contemplation. His pursuit was so earnest that I felt bad for leading him along.

  “Hey, knucklehead. Let me ask you something,” I said.

  “K.”

  “Did they teach you that Nacho is short for Ignacio in that diversity class of yours?”

  Colt looked confused and uncomfortable. I reached over and tussled his hair.

  “Aww, come on, pal. I was just having some fun with you. I know you’re only trying to keep me honest, and I appreciate that. I really do.”

  Colt grinned sheepishly.

  “Now, let’s go get some surf, ya?” I asked, pushing harder on the gas.

  After six miles of winding through the chaparral kicking up dust and chattering over washboard roads, we emerged at a sandy point sticking a half-mile out into the ocean. The waves peeled perfectly along the promontory, one after another in orderly sets of eight. Not a drop of water was out of place.

  Colt and I were quick to succumb to the itchy paranoia that plagues surfers hoping to protect quality waves. We climbed the running boards on opposite sides of the truck and craned our necks north and south looking for any sign of other surfers. The point was usually occupied by groups of campers, but today it was empty. Not a board floating in the water and not a soul standing on the beach. We could scarcely contain ourselves.

  Minutes of bliss melted into hours of ecstasy as my son and I traded waves. We stood on our surfboards in succession, each racing a wave down the point, drifting up and down on backlit teal walls of water. Each wave was flawless, depositing its rider nearly a minute after it started a good half-mile down the point. The fastest way to another ride was to run on the beach back up the point. A long afternoon of successive journeys on this conveyor belt of bliss left our legs shaking and our arms hanging dead at our sides. We dragged our hanging flesh up to the truck and struggled out of our wetsuits.

  The sun was hanging low on the horizon as we left the beach and made our way toward Nacho’s ranch. We found Nacho breaking bales of alfalfa in the back of a beat-up ’72 Chevrolet pickup. He chuckled at the sight of our bloodshot eyes and the two-toned wetsuit tan on our necks.

  “You have fun out in the sewage?”

  “Best day ever.”

  “By far.”

  Nacho pulled himself up into the truck, and Colt slid over to make room for him. The truck bounced and chattered toward the airstrip.

  “You see any brown soobmarines in the water today?”

  We were too exhausted to respond to Nacho’s joke. I could see him eying our sunken eyes and limp sagging frames with great concern.

  “Is getting muy late, eh? Stay tonight at the ranchita. Blanca is making your favorite . . . carnitas.”

  The mere mention of Blanca’s cooking conjured images of braised, pulled pork so vivid I could smell the savory meat, even feel it melting in my mouth.

  “That sounds really—”

  “No can do,” I said, interrupting Colt. “Date night tonight.”

  “Aw, Dad. There’s no way we’re gonna make it home on time.”

  “She’ll forgive me for being late, but she’ll kill me for blowing her off.”

  Colt loaded the airplane while I topped it off with fuel. The sun dipped into the ocean, and the sudden change in temperature sprung howling winds to life. I released the lever on the pump handle and returned it to the cradle. I shoved the numb hand into my pocket, which provided little protection from the biting gusts.

  I climbed into the cockpit and started working the instrument panel in preparation for takeoff. Nacho approached the plane and opened my door.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay here, amigo?” Nacho urged. “Es muy windy to be flying this plane.”

  “No, no . . . we’ll be fine. I’ve done this before.” I started the engine. “We should be getting some more swell soon,” I yelled over the engine noise. “How ’bout a rain check on those carnitas?”

  “Ok, Don Royce. You be careful, eh?”

  I smiled and winked and pulled the door shut.

  “You got this?” Colt asked, looking at me nervously.

  “Yeah, no worries. We’ll be home before you know it.”

  We had a smooth takeoff despite the push and pull of the devil wind. Our flight through Mexico was uneventful, much as it had been in the opposing direction that morning. However
, not long after we crossed the border, the wind took a turn for the worse. By the time I could see the runway lights in the distance, the onslaught of wind was punctuated by violent gusts that stopped as suddenly as they started. I looked over at Colt, who was listening to music on his oversized headphones. The expression on his face was sublime. Colt believed me when I said there was nothing to worry about.

  A gust of wind sent the plane shimmying to the left. The abrupt movement snapped my attention back to the approaching runway. The wind was blowing in from the east, but the runway ran northbound. I thought back to what I’d practiced in flight school, and pointed the nose of the plane into the wind. Every time I lined the runway up in the center of the windshield, a gust of wind would send the plane veering off to the left. My throat grew tight with the impending touchdown. I felt a squeezing sensation deep in my chest. The cockpit seemed smaller and hotter the closer we came to the runway. As I braced the yoke for landing, a massive burst of wind took hold of the plane. I pushed the Cessna hard into the gust to keep us over the center of the runway, but the wind released the plane a moment before the wheels touched ground, and I had no time to compensate. The plane’s windward momentum sent us careening off the runway. I tried furiously to complete the landing even though we went bouncing off into the darkness, but the wheels wouldn’t stay on the ground and the plane refused to level. The tip of the wing on Colt’s side caught asphalt first, vaulting the entire plane into a lumbering cartwheel. When the nose met the ground, it crushed the propeller into the crumpled cowl. The impact absorbed the bulk of the plane’s momentum, and when the tail came around it gripped the pavement enough to flop the plane back onto its belly where it skidded to a halt.

  I couldn’t see Colt through the dust and smoke. I struggled to free myself from my seatbelt but was overcome by a crushing pain in my chest. It felt as if my upper body were locked in a vice. My mind slowed and my vision blurred. All I could do was think of Colt. Colt was young and vibrant; he had his whole life ahead of him. I felt reckless and ashamed. All I’d ever wanted to do was provide for my son, and I’d thrown it all away. I’d succumbed to my own impulsivity and insisted on flying home. Now that decision had robbed Colt of everything.