Assuming Room Temperature

PRAISE FOR ASSUMING ROOM TEMPERATURE

S.P. Durnin’s masterful storytelling and well developed characters pull you in from the first chapter, grabbing you by the throat and holding your attention to the very last sentence. Fiction this powerful is nothing short of addicting!

-Devan Sagliani, author of UNDEAD L.A.

and ZOMBIE ATTACK!: RISE OF THE HORDE.

"Assuming Room Temperature is a rousing good tale. S.P. Durnin takes you on a wild ride at high speed into the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. You’ll fall in love with the characters, and there’s someone for everybody. I highly recommend the novels in this delightful series!"

-Sean Liebling, author of BLOOD, BRAINS AND BULLETS

and THE REAPER: NO MERCY.

Durnin pulls no punches in this thrill ride through the apocalypse!

-Jason Brant, author of ASH and THE HUNGER TRILOGY:

DEVOURED, CONSUMED, and RAVAGED.

PRAISE FOR BOOKS ONE AND TWO OF THE CROWBAR CHRONICLES: KEEP YOUR CROWBAR HANDY and ROTTING TO THE CORE

S.P. Durnin is a unique voice in the world of horror… will leave you wanting more! Well written and well-paced, you won’t be able to put it down!

-Eric S. Brown, author of BIGFOOT WAR

and KAIJU APOCALYPSE.

…There’s a reason the characters, and the reader, will want to keep that crowbar handy!

-Tony Monchinski, author of I KILL MONSTERS

and the critically acclaimed EDEN novels.

"Keep Your Crowbar Handy is a rollercoaster ride of action, adventure, suspense, horror, gore, and personal relationships at the end of the world as we know it. If this is only the first book in the series then hold on to your socks, the rest will blow them off!"

-James Jackson, survival instructor/weapons advisor,

and author of UP FROM THE DEPTHS.

S.P. Durnin manages to bring a shining light into the quivering darkness of the apocalypse!

-Michael S. Gardner, author of DOWNFALL

and BETRAYAL.

…The humor is great, the survivors are fun to follow, and each truly speaks with a voice of their own.

-Stuart Conover, via ScienceFiction.com

I found myself hooked into the book early on and kept getting mad that I had to stop reading it to do things like work my day job, sleep, and tend to other annoying but necessary interruptions.

-Richard Baker, via Zedprep.com

…A high-action story of survival, love, betrayal and sacrifice. If you enjoy the zombie genre, they you’ll definitely enjoy this book!

-Tiffany Clark, via Zombie and

Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Fan Club

"Keep Your Crowbar Handy keeps you intrigued from start to finish. S.P. Durnin’s writing style is compelling, and he clearly enjoys creating vivid characters and story sequences…"

-Patrick S. Dorazio, author of COMES THE DARK,

INTO THE DARK, and BEYOND THE DARK.

…S.P. Durnin takes you on a wild ride through the zombie apocalypse, all the while showing us both the best and the worst in people. If you like zombies, you will love this book!

-Cedric Nye, author of THE ROAD TO HELL

ASSUMING ROOM TEMPERATURE

S.P. DURNIN

A PERMUTED PRESS BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-68261-182-1

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-68261-183-8

ASSUMING ROOM TEMPERATURE

Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 3

© 2016 by S.P. Durnin

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Roy Migabon

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Permuted Press, LLC

New York & Nashville

Published in the United States of America

NOVELS BY S.P. DURNIN

The Crowbar Chronicles

Book One: Keep Your Crowbar Handy

Book Two: Rotting to the Core

Book Three: Assuming Room Temperature

Coming Soon

Death and Taxes

For Tonia.

Love you wife.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As we prepare to go a-riding Down, down into the valley of death once more with the third novel of the KYCH series, I again need to thank some folks even though they likely already know Who They Are. Those who, through advice, inspiration and encouragement (which sometimes entails putting a swift boot upside my butt cheek), keep that crowbar swinging.

Sara (Baconhugs!) Beverage, J.L. Bourne (Kilroy Lives!), Michael L. Wilson (Our Benevolent Overlord) and all the Mighty-Mighty Minions of Permuted Press for their herculean efforts, my editor Matthew Baugh (for not murdering me in my sleep over all the scene breaks), Jason Brant (Lance and Cass forever!), James R. Jackson author and Grand High Muck-a-muck of The Ward Room (writer resource extraordinaire!), Damian Legion and Gregory Blois of Z.E.D.D. Radio, Gini Koch (Go Team Poof!), Shawn (Walking Corpse) Riddle, John (The Camel Spider) Brewer, Guy Cain (ZASC!), Brian Mock and Dooms Dave (Z-Poc will never die!), Briar Lee Mitchell, Brian (Gnash) Parker, Thomas (OMI/OMW) Wolfenden, Devan (ZA!) Sagliani, Eric S. Brown, Danielle Pascale and Jeffery Clare of All Things Zombie, Chris Claremont (for years ago taking the time to talk with a young punk at a comic book shop, back when I was a young punk), Michael S. Gardner, and George A. Romero and Tom Savini (the High Lords of Harmful Matter) for paving the way.

***Special thanks goes out to my Beta (reader) Corps. Keith (Jitterfreak!) Rogers, Anthony (X) Masten, and Leslie B. Foster. (See? Told ya’ you’d make it into the book kid.)

Lastly (and certainly not least) thank you to my Better Half. Not simply because she’s the buxom, intelligent Ginger which haunts every Irishman’s dreams, but because she’s able to quiet the horrors that reside in the deepest, darkest, most terrifying corners of my back-brain.

Even the ones that scare the shit out of me…

-S.P.

People used to like to bitch about lots of stuff.

Anything and everything it seemed.

They’d bitch about how they couldn’t connect or relate to their spouses, or how their kids were flunking summer school. They’d carp about their neighbors, the ones who let their rat-sized dogs crap in everyone’s yards and would never pick up after the precious, yipping, beanie-baby sized, little ankle-biters. They’d complain about their jobs and how their boss was a two-faced, back-stabbing asshole. About their never ending workload and how they would never be recognized for their efforts. They’d whine about not being able to afford the newest model of whatever Eco-friendly, bubble-mobile they drove around in, or about how they hadn’t bought that soft-tail Harley to make themselves feel better during their mid-life crisis. They’d get upset if someone expressed a different opinion on religion, culture... hell, even on what to eat for dinner. The question Pizza or tacos? caused plenty of marital spats, I’m sure.

But that was before. Before everyday life went totally nuts. Before surviving to see another sunrise and keeping the people you cared about safe became the only thing you really had any time to worry about.

Before the dead started rising.

Over the span of 24 hours, the United States (along with the rest of the world) went totally bat-shit. That’s because for some unknown reason, the dead started getting back up and eating the living. The infected were suddenly everywhere. Walking through the streets, shambling around in the parks, coming through your dining room window. The Higher Ups (I.E. the government) were caught hopelessly unprepared, proving (as we’ve always suspected, really) that they actually were that dumb. Attacks became riots, which in elevated to pitched battles. Those turned into running fights as greater and greater numbers of the dead began overwhelming every defense the living tried to mount, forcing what was left of the American people to flee west. The slaughter that followed was beyond anything previously seen by man. An honest to God extinction level event that pretty much ended civilization as we knew it, as a new life-form (or an un-living form of life) began to take possession of the planet. Those of us left behind as humanity fled the cities had to learn how fight the creatures successfully by ourselves. Two in the head, dead. to quote a wise, wise man. I’m pretty sure we all owe Romero and Savini big time for that one.

It’s what we’re doing to the nasty things, when we can. We’re still fighting, still surviving, even though we’ve lost people near and dear to us along the way.

That said, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things I miss.

I miss waking up in the city, hearing the traffic outside and seeing familiar people when I’d go for a run. I miss working out at the dojo. I’m almost positive my instructor Sensei Takahashi is fine. I sure he made it to safety without much difficulty at all. Heck, he’s probably out west somewhere already, teaching soldiers how to Open can of whoop ass on ugly fool with big mouth and no brain. as he always said. Heh-heh! When he talked, he sounded just like an old Kung-Fu movie master. I always that that was so cool...

I miss music and clubbing on the weekends. No scratch that. I miss music and dancing at clubs on the weekends. I really miss that. Laurel could sing. Me? I never tried. Just too self conscious that I might sound like George if I did, you know? Like a pit bull gargling gravel? But I loved to dance. Thank you mom, for all the martial arts lessons. Gives you a great sense of timing and balance for when you wanna shake your booty.

I miss shopping. Damn, do I ever! I always used to go to Polaris or Easton on Saturday mornings. I’d have a bite at Cinnabon (guilty pleasure), roam through the stores for cool Anime tees I could make into belly shirts and Hello Kitty stuff (Yes, okay? I like Hello Kitty. Shut up.), check Vickey’s for new naughty-wear, get a coffee and a book or two at Barnes and Noble. Maybe have some ice cream.

Oh. My. God.

Ice cream.

I’d kill for some double-chocolate fudge and cookie dough ice cream on a waffle cone.

I miss music stores. The smaller places that have current, bass-heavy club music (only for dancing, not really for listening), along with good stuff like Billy and the Boingers, Kisida Kyodan and the Akebosi Rockets, Concrete Blonde, John Lee Hooker, Deathtongue, Loreena McKinnitt.

Laurel used to sing a few of her songs...

Dammit, now I’m getting all depressed. Why did I agree with Jake when he asked us to start these journals? I hate thinking about that day. It was bad enough we lost Donna and Karen, but-...

Okay. Not gonna think about that. Nope, nope, nope. You can’t make me.

***Side note***

I have to admit something here.

If you’d told me I’d be doing this six months ago? I’d have said you were out of your mind. Or at least in need of some quality time on a psychologist’s couch.

Oops. Sorry. That’s not important.

Anyway. Right now we’re still attempting to make our way to the (questionable) safety the western quarter of the United States is rumored to provide and, let me tell you, it’s been almost No Fun At All. Man-eating creatures, psycho hillbillies, murderous white supremacists?

Been there, done that, have the goop-smeared t-shirt.

That’s something people never took into account before the Zombie Apocalypse, you know? The goop. Exploding (or decapitated) heads tend to cover you in all kinds of yuck in close quarters. Totally gross. As if the smell isn’t bad enough...

And did you know zombies all smell like poo? They do. I guess when you die, the first thing you do is crap your pants as your bowels let go.

Yeah, I know right? Ew! Yet another piece of information I didn’t need to know either.

***Another side note***

If you ever find yourself hip-deep in a Doomsday scenario? Stock up on baby-wipes.

Horde ‘em.

Horde em like they’re frikkin’ gold.

Seriously. Baby wipes are your friend. Not only can they be used for toilet paper, they’re great for cleaning off zombie goop, and even getting rid of that on the road for 6 days straight body funk when you don’t have access to a shower.

Just sayin’...

-above excerpts taken from the A.Z. (after-zombie) bestselling journal of Katherine Brightfeather Cho entitled: Self Defense, Weaponry, and Must-Know Post-Apocalyptic Fashion Tips for the Modern Ninja-girl"

-PROLOGUE-

Mel had been enjoying a regular Saturday, which entailed riding around on bikes with her friend Kim, when it all happened.

As it was still early morning, they’d decided they would take the long way to the Vanita, Oklahoma Walmart; the one that took them past the high school’s football field, so they could watch the team practice for the scrimmage next week. They’d sat whispering on the bleachers, watching the players run around the field, ogling preteen heaven as the future All-State champions attempted to knock each other senseless. It was great fun.

They basically ended up in a full blown giggle-fit when Neil, one of the guys from the track team, stopped to say hello. He’d been a lanky, bespectacled boy with a somewhat large nose and a protruding Adam’s apple, who’d had a not-so-secret crush on Kim’s slim friend all year. They’d known each other since Neil’s parents had moved their family to Vanita, To get away from all the BS in St. Louis, his father said. For the life of her, Mel couldn’t figure out why. She didn’t think she was much to look at. Her hair was dishwater blonde not actual blonde, she had grey eyes, not blue like the cheerleaders she’d seen at all the high school games, and (dammit!) it seemed like she’d never get boobs. At least, not large ones. Which was a big worry for a girl her age. Neil was a long distance runner. That meant he spent a lot of time running around the track, the bucolic town’s streets and even the surrounding country roads, so everyone knew him. He was well liked by everyone he knew in school, if not super popular. He liked reading fantasy novels and comic books, just as she did. He was nice and cute (in a dorky sort of way) and it made Mel blush when he’d smile at her, which she’d never actually admit. After he’d asked what they were doing later then trotted off to the screaming of the track coach, Kim immediately wanted the dish on whether the slim boy and Mel had ever kissed. That prompted a three block bicycle chase, both of them laughing as Mel swore to pop Kim a good one and Kim swearing Mel was in lu-u-u-u-uv!.

The girls were still laughing about it until they neared the Eastern State Hospital.

There were weird looking people coming out of the doors. They looked kind of sick Most of them were wearing hospital gowns, some wore scrubs or normal clothes and a couple were wearing state trooper uniforms. What shocked the two girls was that more than a few of them were really bloody and even more looked seriously hurt. Kim had screamed and pointed out one of the men in the growing crowd.

That’s Mr. Bachman! She’d yelled.

Mel saw her friend was right, sort of. Mr. Larry Bachman had been their seventh grade biology teacher. He’d been hospitalized after his appendix almost ruptured a week prior, and had been recovering nicely the last Mel heard. Her mother had mentioned some of the parents had sent him a card. It didn’t look as if he was doing to well just then though. He looked absolutely frightening. He was missing the left side of his face and was chewing on someone’s arm. A few moments later the growing mob noticed Mel and Kim. Bloody jaws dropped earthward and a chorus of chilling, wet moans forced their way out of twenty pairs of blood splattered lips.

That was when the girls decided to turn their bikes around.

Their plans for that day forgotten, both made for their homes in a panic. Kim’s was a block closer than Mel’s so the blonde-haired girl yelled over her shoulder that she’d call once she managed to tell her mom what happened. Kim yelled for her to be careful, jumped from her bike before it came to a stop and left it lying in her front yard as she scurried into her own house. That was the last time Mel had seen her friend. She didn’t know what had happened. She hoped Kim had managed to escape, but knew the girl was most likely walking around out there, somewhere. Hungry, alone, and very, very dead.

Neither her mother or her father had been home. The back door of the house was open and there were blood stains on the door-jamb. She’d stood there looking at the crimson stains for a long time, crying. Her parents never would’ve left without her. The huge red puddle on the linoleum floor was already attracting flies too, so it had been there for hours. She knew they were dead, her brother too, most likely.

Her brain kicked in again and the teen decided, regardless of how messed up she was at the moment, she had to do something. It was either that, or what had probably happened to her family would happen to her too. Running down the street yelling for help was out, so she’d gone upstairs to her room and emptied her backpack. History notebook, last weeks algebra homework, her AP government notes, they all hit the carpet. She replaced them with a few pairs of pants, some t-shirts, socks and underwear, then headed back down to the kitchen. She’d taken her dad’s entire supply of power bars, protein mix, and multivitamins from the walk in pantry, along with the dried apricots, apples, and raisins her mother kept on hand. Mel had changed into a pair of jeans, her cross-trainers, one of her mother’s gardening shirts, and then taken her gloves as well; the thick leather ones her mom used when pruning her roses. The teen had raided her father’s small work-shed, taking his heavy-duty Mag-light, stuffed it in her pack, and then gone for the garden tools.

The pick ax was out. It was too awkward and ungainly. Same problem with the regular ax. Carrying that would be exhausting for the slim girl. The garden shears would make a formidable weapon. Their pointed, scissor-like tips would go right through flesh, but might get stuck in bone if she used them for stabbing. Mel decided on the European version crowbar her father had purchased on eBay last summer. Being forged of titanium, and not the normal steel, it was pretty light, but still super durable. She could use it to pry open doors, break windows without getting cut, or move heavy objects. It added almost three feet to her reach too, so she should be able to stay out of grabbing range, if she were careful. That way, she wouldn’t get turned into a zombie.

Mel knew what the crowd she and Kim had witnessed were. While not a avid fan of horror movies, she’d watched enough of them to know a zombie when she saw one. She was a teenager, after all. Someone with greyish skin, yellowing eyes, covered in blood, and chomping on body parts? That pretty much summed up everyone she’d seen coming out of the hospital, and it sure as hell said Zombies! to her. The teen didn’t have any illusions. She knew she had to hide. She wasn’t a super-zombie-killer from the movies, so she had to find somewhere safe to hole up until help came. She had no intentions of being the stupid chick in the slasher flick. The one that runs through the woods screaming (who always manages to trip on something) with the monster right behind her. So, she’d thought about where to go as she filled a couple of sports bottles with water.

The police station wasn’t a good idea. Lots of the town’s residents would be heading there, she was sure. That would only draw the zombies that way too and Mel didn’t feel like getting eaten. The church three blocks down was an equally bad idea. It might be secure for a little while, but frightened people who thought the world was coming to an end (which is very well what it might have been doing) would be running for the confessional. So, once again, lots of people gathering in one place equalled zombie chow. She needed somewhere with thick walls and doors, a limited number of exits, food, water, and anyone watching just then would have witnessed the light bulb! look on Mel’s face as the pieces clicked together in her head. The girl moved quickly to check the front yard, making sure not to move the curtains so she wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention, in case there were any zombies close by. She didn’t see anyone on the street and decided she might be able to make the ride, if she were careful.

The young blonde stopped and took a last look around when she put her hand on the doorknob. She wouldn’t be able to come back. Ever. Mel began tearing up again and quickly wiped her eyes. Time enough for that later, if she managed to survive. It wouldn’t do any good to have a breakdown before she reached safety. She did grab a family photo off the wall and removed it from the frame before stuffing it into the outside zipper pocked of her backpack though. After taking some deep breaths, Mel left her home by way of the front door.

Once outside, she could hear them. Well, probably not the same crowd from the hospital. Others. People that had been bitten by them and had turned themselves. Mel didn’t know if they were just infected with something or really dead, but she didn’t plan on sticking around to find out. Hopping on her bike once more, the lone girl headed for the west side of Vanita.

-CHAPTER ONE-

So what did we come out for again? Leo asked, checking the magazine on his M-4.

Kat glanced at him in the rear view mirror. "It’s a girl thing. Do you really want to know?"

The indigo-haired woman turned their Humvee south, heading for the small Mom and Pop drug store they’d seen coming into town a week prior. The few infected along the stretch of road fell easily beneath the vehicle’s armored crash bumper as she drove northward. Kat was proud of herself for not aiming for the awful things any longer. They’d had a close call a few weeks back when she’d almost flipped the Hummer, after smearing one all over its front end. And then, the windshield.

Leo grimaced. Ah. No. I think that’s all I need, really. Leo looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Just try to enjoy the ride. Elle said calmly. If you’re a good boy? You might get a sweetie later.

He rolled his eyes. "You’re never gonna let that go, are you?"

What? That I’m dating a younger guy? Nope. She replied.

Leo shook his head, causing his dark hair to bob around his sun-tanned face and looked at the scenery passing by. He’d long ago accepted Elle’s slightly off-putting sense of humor. They never would’ve lasted as a couple, especially during a zombie apocalypse, if he hadn’t. Besides, it helped that the ex-sargeant was seriously hot.

Elle was tall, blonde, and very pretty in a GI Joe kind of way. She wore her honey-blonde hair just a bit longer than shoulder length now that, thanks to corpses staggering around world-wide, military regulation length was a thing of the past. She had one hell of a figure under the fatigues and flack vest, and the fact Elle was really good at shredding things with her .50 cal machine gun as well put her somewhere near the level of She’s A Total Babe So Grin And Bear It in Leo’s mind.

I think it’s hot. Barely legal and all that... Kat teased.

I’m nineteen. And you’re not helping, Leo said.

Sure I am. Kat said, with a unrepentant smile. It’s called comedy relief.

Leo sighed as Sampson’s deep bass chuckle rumbled from the passenger seat. John Henry Sampson had been aptly named. The Hulk-sized, six foot seven man had been a linebacker for the Indianapolis Colts for just over a year, prior to the Zombie Apocalypse. The day it happened, he’d fought his way out of the city with half a dozen other uninfected people. Now, five months after civilization as we know it came to an end, the muscular black man was the only one left of his original group.

I’d have to agree with the kid. Sampson chuckled, shifting his bulk slightly. The big man took up almost the entire front, passenger side of the vehicles cab. "You girls do ride him pretty hard about being the youngest."

Traitor. We should’ve left you in Fairland. Kat gave him a narrow look from the corner of her eye and attempted not to grin.

Fairland was a small township set roughly thirty-five miles west of the Cincinnati Gas and Electric Lake their small group had sought out, after their battle with the Purifiers. Said Purifiers had been a bunch of screaming, white-supremacist hate mongers, led by a raving psycho who’d been responsible for the deaths of three of their friends. Foster had managed to lead them to the hidden safe-house on the southern side of the little town afterwards, but it had been a long trip. They’d had to circle far to the west after crossing the Ohio/Kentucky border, to avoid the large concentration of infected that was sure to be in Cincinnati, Fort Mitchell, and Florence. It had taken them the rest of the night and all of the following day to reach the cache and nearly doubled their driving distance. Thanks to abandoned cars, multiple roads blocked by half-destroyed and abandoned barricades, along with the occasional walking corpse, they were all exhausted by the time their party reached the reinforced sanctuary at Sunset Valley Stock Farm. The survivors had sheltered within the farm for almost a week before Sampson came knocking on their door.

* * *

Holy shit! Foster exclaimed. "There’s a goddamn giant outside."

The others quickly huddled around the cache’s lone security monitor with him to see. If Kat was the type to be impressed by someone’s height and weight, the fellow out there would’ve been the one to do it. Being a highly-trained, butt-kicking, ninja-girl however, she knew physical size meant almost nothing in a fight.

The tall and extremely bulky man at the door had obviously been on the road a while. His clothing was battered and splotched. Old bloodstains speckled his Superman t-shirt, which was obviously too small for his massive chest, here and there. He carried not one, but two loaded backpacks that looked as if they’d been looted from the hiking section of a sporting goods store. The faded, dangling tags on the packs had kind of been a giveaway. He wore faded jeans that had seen some mileage and a pair of thick-soled, yellowish-toned work boots you could find at any discount Super-center. Pre-outbreak that is. Probably, due to his huge feet, those were all he’d been able to scrounge.

"Where the hell did he come from?" Rae asked, staring at the giant’s image on the screen. The sultry, brown-haired woman didn’t seem the least bit afraid, only surprised. Most likely due to the fully automatic, XM-8 rifle she had slung across her back.

I think he was in one of the feed silos. Must have come in last night in the dark. George replied, not taking his eyes from the monitor. Big SOB, ain’t he?

Should we, I don’t know, let him in? Bee asked. George’s niece bent over for a closer look, almost giving herself a wardrobe malfunction and causing the two green, Anime-style ponytails she wore in her hair to bob slightly. She was one of those girls lucky enough to have been seriously graced in the lung department, and tended to forget said fact.

They all frowned at the question. Their group had become very leery of any people they ran into, thanks to the Purifiers. As if the hungry, mobile dead roaming around weren’t bad enough. It seemed that if other people had survived, many had fallen victim to what shrinks would term as the sudden, uncontrolled outbreak of justifiable cases involving Necrophobia. Basically a really brainy way to say people were scared out of their minds at the thought of having their fucking faces eaten off—along with their other much-cherished appendages—by all the damn zombies walking around.

The survivors had watched as the large man politely thumped on the cache’s door again and look right