Seeds of the Dead E-Book

Andy Kumpon

• Herausgeber: KIllerBeam Entertainment
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

When his evil superiors create a new strain of genetically modified food (GMO) that transforms ordinary people into ravenous, bloodthirsty zombies, a disillusioned scientist turns whistle-blower and becomes their next target....

Seeds of the Dead is a story about a man at the crossroads, one which will, in turn, jeopardize the very fate of humankind. On one hand, this man supports the creation of GMO’s (genetically modified organisms) to help feed the vast population of the world. But to do so, he must align himself with a nefarious corporation and the corrupt elitists who control it.

Meet Peter Malik, a promising young scientist employed by the dubious Moonstar Foods INC. When Peter learns the treachery his corporation is set to unleash upon the unsuspecting masses, he threatens to expose their dark secret by turning whistleblower. The corporation retaliates, contaminating Peter’s hometown with infected food, and turns the people Peter loves most into flesh-eating zombies.

Can Peter save his hometown, his parents, and the woman he adores, plus warn the entire planet of the impending doom?


Set against a zombie apocalypse in small-town America, Seeds of the Dead is a thrilling mix of survival horror, dark humor, along with loads of action and suspense! Those who love zombies and zombie comedies will treasure Seeds of the Dead! Come along for the wild ride! Read it now!
Press and Reviews for "Seeds of the Dead":

"Seeds of the Dead, the novel by Andy Kumpon and Gary Malick is an absolutely entertaining ride into horror, gore and everything we love about horror. With chemically-created, slime-spewing zombies running around gorging themselves on human flesh and an evil corporation as the puppet master, this is a story that has no down time. It is a wonderful, in-your-face novel that you won’t be able to put down!" ~ HORROR FUEL

"This time around genetically modified food is the vehicle for a localized zombie outbreak, featuring a corporate evil angle not entirely unlike that of the Umbrella Corporation in the Resident Evil franchise. The creators bill the novel as a blend of gallows humor and survival horror, and the satirical flavor of the book is immediately on display in the official synopsis– Moonstar is, after all, only a few letters from Monsanto...." ~ HORROR BUZZ

"Seeds of the Dead was a quick and light read, but good fun, if you are just looking for that dose of horror told with a good dose of black humor." ~ THE HORROR REVIEW

"Seeds of the Dead" is horrifying, hilarious, and memorable. The genetically modified angle is as interesting as it is plausible, and personally I found it to be a very unique, fresh twist on a genre that often feels incredibly stale. (I say this as a lifelong horror lover.) It's just plain nice to see zombies utilized in a new, refreshing (and uncomfortably relevant) way." ~ Aperson Smith (VINE VOICE) AMAZON REVIEW

Leseprobe

SEEDS OF THE DEAD

ANDY KUMPON

GARY MALICK

BOOKS BY KILLERBEAM ENTERTAINMENT

Day Crosser

KNIT

COMING SOON

Stricken

The Pit

SINK

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For permission requests, write to the publisher at’ Attention:

KillerBeam Entertainment

[email protected]

http://www.killerbeamfilms.com

Cover Illustration by KillerBeam Entertainment © 2020

Editing by Bill Armstrong.

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

Special Thanks to

Bill Armstrong

Greg Leib

Charles Harrison

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

PROLOGUE

A dusty plot of land in the middle of nowhere—a depressing sight to behold as one could appreciate that its wasted potential for beauty—ravaged by poverty and drought—had long lead to this destruction of the American Dream. Rows of withered corn stalks laid broken and dying on the cracked soil all-thirsting for a smattering of rain. A lone farmer muttered obscenities as he nailed a foreclosure sign on his dilapidated gate. Hard lines on his otherwise youthful face bespoke a life of stress and worry. Near-featherless chickens, malnourished with neglect, pecked at the barren ground near his feet. Behind him in the distance sat the skeletal structure of an ancestral farmhouse like a ghost in ruins.

A low rumbling sound distracted the farmer—he glanced up toward the road just as his lead hammer missed the mark and smashed the tip of his thumb to a bloody pulp. “Ahhhh— shit!” He grunted as the heavy hammer fell to the ground and struck the tip of his tattered boot, crushing his big toe within. He hopped on one foot in anguish as the chickens scattered under his feet while flapping their naked wings.

The distant rumbling soon became a convoy of ominous black semi-trucks. One by one, they rolled past the farmer as his eyes gleamed with hatred. The cabs and trailers adorned no markings or logos and reflected only a clean, black metallic shine. “You bastards put me out of house and home, but I’ll be back, I promise you that, I’ll be back!” the farmer shouted, waving an angry fist with his uninjured hand.

As the last of the fleet passed him by from the opposite direction, another vehicle approached. The farmer squinted, unable to discern more than a shiny, glistening grill in the diffuse sunlight. After a minute, a black Escalade glided abreast of the farmer. He could not make out anything in the tinted windows except his ragged reflection. Seconds passed before he summoned his courage and retrieved the lead hammer at his feet, raising it defiantly.

“Well, show yourselves, God-Damn cowards!”

The passenger window powered down, and the blood drained from the farmer’s face. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything,” he sputtered, dropping the hammer, raising his hands in supplication. “I’ll leave! I will! And I’ll give you no hassle whatsoever,” he vowed, stumbling backward. “Oh God, man!” he pleaded. “You can’t possibly want to shoot me over this!”

A gun barrel recoiled twice in the open window, its report muffled by a silencer. The farmer clutched his belly as two distinct holes in his undershirt stained the cotton fabric red. He dropped to his knees and slammed hard on his back, gasping to retrieve the air hissing from his lungs. The dying man heard the Escalade’s door opening, followed by the click-clacking of heeltaps on the pavement. A pair of oxford dress shoes leisurely approached his fading eyesight.

“Your chickens will dine well tonight,” said the voice above the oxfords.

Finally, in graying vision, the farmer saw his starving chickens gathered about his face. They pecked at the moist orifices, as they would peck maggots off any rotting carcass.

CHAPTER 1

Moonstar Laboratories was a sight to behold. Dominating a sprawling industrial park in the suburbs outside a major metropolis, its eclectic layout comprised dozens of pyramidal structures of laminated glass and carbon steel, resembling space-age, industrial greenhouses. Most of them were joined to sterile white buildings in the bland, architectural design of any office complex defining corporate America. The landscaping was immaculate, featuring perfectly trimmed hedges and grass so green it might be mistaken for artificial turf.

The interiors were even more elaborate—laboratories filled with the best cutting—edge equipment money can buy. Wall to wall stainless steel tables and countertops lined the laboratories. The smell of astringent and bleach wafted through the air.

Peter Malik held a black and white lab rat in his steady hand as he studied it closely. Its tail was curled gently around his wrist as he focused his hazel eyes on the passive rodent’s admirable girth. Peter’s white lab coat was pristine with a black letter M embroidered over the left breast pocket. Everything about Peter was pressed and clean—he took pride in his appearance—befitting a profession held in high esteem. On his left wrist was displayed the latest fruits of his labor, a brand new Suunto Core watch. It caught the attention of the rodent, who nosed the glittering metal, sniffing it with curiosity.

Another man stood close by his side. Rory, Peter’s lab assistant, exuded a cool demeanor, enhanced by hip, multi-colored glasses. His trendy button-down shirt was partially concealed under a well-worn lab coat. “Gets his own cage, like rat royalty,” remarked Rory with an indulgent smile.

“No harm will ever befall Lil’ Pete,” responded Peter, fondly stroking the spoiled lab animal. He opened the barred door to a private cage and gently placed Lil’ Pete inside. The rat scurried over the cedar shavings and onto an exercise wheel, accelerating like a racehorse down the stretch.

Rory held up a pair of small glass vials filled with corn seeds to the light. He looked them up and down intently, the yellow color of the corn bringing out hints of green in Rory’s otherwise dark brown eyes. “They said these prototypes need some additional modification. Basically, the timing is a little off on their termination dates,” explained Rory as Peter took one of the vials in his hand and examined the contents.

“You know Rory, I’ve been here ten years. And I’ve never seen anything stir more controversy than these terminator seeds. People hate them.”

“People hate everything we do. If we cured cancer tomorrow they would hate us for that too,” said Rory as Peter held the seeds up to the fluorescent lights overhead and eyed them acutely.

“They just need to get over their hysteria. We’re not the enemy,” said Peter, matter-of-factly. He glanced up at the security camera perched on a wall-mount in the corner of the lab. Its dark cover showed the men’s reflection like a black mirror—the all-seeing electronic eye—always watching, recording every movement. Peter placed the vial in his lab coat pocket and pulled out a Swiss army knife.

He held up a genetically modified potato and sliced a piece into a bite-sized chunk. “The food we’ve been creating can change the world for the better,” he said as he offered a slice to Rory.

Rory gulped, as he took the starchy tuber between his fingers and slowly raised it to his quivering lips. He suddenly paused and placed his other hand over his stomach. “I just ate lunch. I’m stuffed.”

“Rory, you had a garden salad,” protested Peter.

“Yeah, like two servings,” said Rory with a slight air of drama. “And crackers!” Peter took the genetically modified slice from Rory, popped it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Rory shuddered.

Peter pulled the vial of seeds back out of his pocket and looked at Lil’ Pete. “Snack time!” He poured out a handful and handed the rest to Rory, who approached a second cage full of even hungrier scurrying rodents.

The rats, knowing it was feeding time, stood on their hind legs, squealing with delight. They then rushed forward, crowding the cage door to be first in line for their daily allotment.

Lil’ Pete munched on his corn seeds—uncontested—as his little rat nose wiggled with every bite. “It’s okay little buddy. I trust whoever made these,” said Peter as he stroked the head of his furry friend.

The hours flew by and as night fell, Peter and Rory wrapped up their experiments. Before Peter departed, he made one last check on Lil’ Pete. He was sound asleep, randomly twitching to some happy vision in rat dreamland. The bruxing of his incisors almost reminded Peter of a gentle purr. Yeah, life is good for them all,he thought as he covered Lil’ Pete’s cage with a blanket.

Peter exited the back door into the parking lot with his satchel bag over his shoulder. He tossed it into the trunk of his late-model BMW and slammed it shut. Just overhead hung an immense lit-up sign with blazing letters: Moonstar Foods Inc. The sign glared so brightly that even on this cloudless night it outshone the light of the moon high above. He looked up at the words and logo—he felt so noble and distinguished—and for a moment it beamed beneficently down on him, making him feel like a rock star.

As Peter opened the driver-side door, his peripheral vision glimpsed two suspicious figures lurking at the edge of the lighted lot. Teenagers, he thought to himself with annoyance. Both wore dark hoodies to conceal themselves in the black of night. They moved silently into the shadows. They carried cans of spray paint and crouched low, thinking they were undetected. Peter took out his cell phone and dialed security. He whispered into the receiver, “Hey, you guys may want to come out and see this—just outside the parking lot near the rear exit.”

He looked on as one of the figures quickly sprayed the word MONSTER INC in bright red paint on the side of the building. The letters ran like thickened blood down the side of the building’s white and clean facade. The other figure sketched a crude rendition of a monster—a ghoulish fiend— with massive jowls and clawed appendages. Overhead lights suddenly flooded the area as the two vandals were caught on security cameras.

Shouts and profanity echoed from the darkness, followed by a trio of armed security guards in dark uniforms. They chased after the unruly teens as they scurried off in an attempt to avoid capture. As the mischief-makers ran toward the hole in the fence they had schlepped through on their arrival, a mobile guard on a security cart cut them off. The miscreants were quickly corralled by the other guards on foot, apprehended and escorted back to the building. One angrily shouted, “GMO is the food of the dead!”

Peter shook his head. To each their own, he mused as he drove away in the moonlight.

CHAPTER 2

The morning light crept through Peter’s window like golden threads. A sliver of radiance sliced through the blackout curtains and landed on his face like a mini spotlight. He stirred and opened his eyes, just seconds before his alarm clock sounded. He sat up in his bed, stretched his arms wide, and indulged in a loud yawn.

A family portrait, propped up on his nightstand, stood watch over him. He fondly regarded the visages of his parents, both smiling brightly at the camera. Between them sat a much younger Peter, posing proudly in graduation garb. Although he had aged a bit since then, he hadn’t really changed very much.

Peter slipped out of his bedclothes and jumped into the shower. Not one to tarry before breakfast, he emerged soon after and picked out fresh clothes for another day in the lab. Steaming java awaited him in his state-of-the-art coffee maker as he breezed into the kitchen.

Peter’s morning routine rarely strayed from the usual. Actually, most of his daily routines rarely strayed from the usual—a fine arrangement that fed a certain smugness which would irritate his colleagues. He cherished his quiet, organized lifestyle, a lifestyle that allowed him to focus almost entirely on his work, and to nurse his desire for worldly success and professional recognition.

Peter pulled out his laptop and set it on the breakfast table. The memory of the prior night’s vandalism flashed in his mind. What drives people to hold Moonstar in such contempt? He typed the words, MOONSTAR LABORATORIES into the YouTube search bar, and instantly a swarm of results flooded the screen. In page after page, videos vilifying Moonstar scrolled up. Most of them made outrageous, unfounded claims against his employer, in Peter’s bemused opinion. Other highlighted videos were GMO protest marches from every corner of the globe. He clicked on a random link; it showed throngs of protesters marching in solidarity, waving signs and chanting slogans deriding the company, his company. The blood, sweat, and the tears, or the endless hours of trial and error combined with the personal sacrifices he had endured for all of humankind endlessly maligned to no-end. Peter muttered to himself, “Get a life people …get a life,” He then slammed the lid of his laptop shut, glanced at his wristwatch and realized it was time to go.

His daily commute to the laboratory was postcard perfect as he pulled up to the automatic gate and security booth.

“Morning, Mister Malik,” said the guard.

“Morning, Gus. So, did your guys take care of those vandals last night?”

“Oh, yes sir we did. You won’t be seeing them again anytime soon,” The guard grinned ear to ear as the gate lifted for Peter.

As he parked his vehicle, a paint crew had already assembled to remove evidence of the prior night’s destructive and unsightly tagging. He could only smile to and think himself, nothing to see here.

As Peter entered the lab he was assailed by a pungent stench that could only be that of rotting flesh. “What the hell is that smell? Did the sewer back up or something?”

“I wish it were that simple,” replied Rory, hovering over the cage that held the bulk of the lab rats. He covered his nose and gagged from the foul odor permeating the lab. “This shit’s ugly,” he warned, as Peter stepped up beside him. Rory pulled back the cover and Peter peered through the tiny cage bars.

“What the hell happened?” gasped Peter through gritted teeth. Every rat was dead—wet and slimy—and each corpse seemed to have suffered the same hideous mutation. The rat’s jaws and teeth appeared to have tripled in size. Just as shocking, all of their orifices oozed globs of pus and yellowish green fluid. An epic mess caused by some malignant virus—or was it something even worse?

Peter turned towards Lil’ Pete’s cage with a look of dread. Had he, too, fallen victim to the same ailment? He slowly walked over, swallowed the lump in his throat, and pulled the blanket back, only to reveal that indeed his furry friend also had become a horrific, mushy lump of mutated rat-flesh. “Oh, Lil’ Pete. It got you too,” Peter grew silent, steepled his hands, and buried his head in thought. What the hell could have caused this freakish lab-rat apocalypse?

Removing a sample corpse, Peter and Rory laid it belly up on one of the stainless steel tables. An adjustable work lamp beamed a bright light on their subject. As the men prepared to perform an autopsy, they silently regarded the deteriorating animal whose features were so monstrously transmuted.

Peter held a scalpel and probe as Rory prepared to jot notes on his clipboard. First, Peter examined the jaw line, propping open the mouth by pressing down on its gnarled, elongated incisors. “It’s mouth has somehow gotten ... bigger,” said Peter in disbelief.

“Well, it’s not like he’s going to be eating anytime soon,” replied Rory with a nervous chuckle.

“Let’s look at those internal organs,” said Peter as he cut into the rat’s gooey flesh—the juices flowed from the incision as he nudged and prodded the stringy guts and intestines. The rat’s inner digestive tract overwhelmed their noses with its horrendous stink.

“Oh man! And I thought they smelled bad on the outside,” choked Rory. They pulled back from the carcass and composed themselves before digging in further.

“Its stomach is—expanding,” noted Peter.

“Expanding? With what?” asked Rory as he peered over his Peter’s shoulder as he lightly poked the exposed stomach with the tip of the scalpel blade.

“Well, let’s find out, shall we?” Peter speared the vein-covered, fleshy sac with a sharp thrust. Shockingly, the dead rat emitted a horrendous shriek. Both men jumped back from the table in abject horror.

Suddenly, the splayed-open rat reared up on its haunches and leapt at them. The men stumbled back— incredulous at the impossible reanimation. The odious beast snapped its enlarged jaws. Instinctively, Rory swatted it down with his clipboard. “Oh shit!” he screamed.

Within seconds the men heard more blood curdling shrieking from behind. They turned to see the other rats rising up, one by one, reanimated, back from the dead. Wet and slimy, they converged on the bars of the cage with the gleaming eyes of predatory little monsters. They hissed, and their ravening, enlarged jaws gaped open, their twisted yellow fangs seeking warm, living flesh.

The red emergency light flickered overhead. Quickly, Rory moved towards the door and pressed down on the handle. It clicked loudly, auto-locked from the outside. They were trapped. “They locked us in!” shouted Rory.

Peter glared up at the black eye of the security camera as the horde of mutant vermin savagely ripped the bars of their cage apart.

***

Far from the laboratory commotion, in a lavish office suite high in the same building, an exotic-looking woman sat behind an executive desk. Model perfect, dark brown hair pulled into a neat French twist, lips colored a signature Prada crimson, eyes opaque and cold under thinly arched brows, she projected a condescending gaze at nothing in particular.

At a matching desk across the office sat a man of similar demeanor. He ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, grazing a slightly receding hairline. His brow shaded glittering, hunter-green eyes. He was unnaturally thin— certain of his employees had labeled him as "a snake in a suit." He and the woman sat with their backs turned to the office door.

Furnishings and décor were split down the middle; between them, the two shared only a large antique Persian carpet, a rare nineteenth century Hiraz, hand knotted by palace artisans of another age. The woman’s side of the office bespoke a fondness for high-end accessories with a showy, yet artistic flair. His side was post-modern, nearly colorless, minimalist and spare, suggesting his fealty to the bottom-line.

Their attention was fixed on a bank of monitoring systems mounted on the back wall, a row of high-tech digital screens constantly monitoring mission-critical labs in the complex. Incongruously, a Chopin etude played in the background as the two sat watching Peter and Rory desperately battling the monster rats in Lab 1A.

***

“Rory!” Peter pointed to some half-filled beakers on a shelf labeled ACID in dark bold lettering. Rory stared down at the splayed-open rat, now crouching and ready for another attack. It suddenly leapt at his face. Rory ducked, and the rat hit the wall hard behind him with a squishing thud, leaving a splattered, rat-sized stain. Rory rushed over and seized one of the beakers. He hurled it at the cage as the other rats were squeezing through the twisted bars to get at the men. The glass exploded on impact. One rat escaped; the others were not so lucky. The rats squealed in agony, dissolving on contact with the acid.

“Peter!” Rory tossed him a second sealed tube labeled: “Hydrochloric Acid.”

Peter juggled the tube as the lone escaped rat bounded after him, snapping at his ankles. As Peter back-stepped away from the rat, he tripped over his own feet and landed hard on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. The container flew from his hand and shattered on the floor. Shards of glass sprayed over the sealed concrete as the acidic liquid spilled out between him and the zombie rat now lunging for his throat. As the rat splashed through the acid, the flesh of its feet sizzled and dissolved. Legless, the rat squirmed and slithered like a snake towards Peter’s jugular.

Then, from above, Rory slammed a canister of liquid nitrogen down on the thrashing monstrosity, squashing it like a cockroach. Rory and Peter feverishly glanced around the room. The worst was over.

The red alarm light suddenly switched off and the doors to the laboratory unlocked with a loud click. Rory glared up at the security camera. “Well thanks a lot! Does this mean we get a raise? Extra benefits? How about some insider trading in company stock?”