Free When the Dead Rise (Book 1): The Beginning by C.M. Fick

still, he sat up and struggled to his feet. The squawk of Powell's radio made him jump.
    "Turn that bloody thing off," Ron hissed. The zombie, who was once his partner, turned and stared up at Powell with grey, flat eyes that were already beginning to turn milky; he lifted his arms and moaned. Powell spun the volume dial on his walkie as Ron got to his feet. "That moan seems to bring more zombies in. We'd better get inside before they find us and figure out a way to get into the house."
    Powell didn't remember climbing through the window or lying down on the bed - he knew he was going into shock but couldn't do anything about it. He didn't remember the call on his radio or even his promise to Roslyn as the world faded into black and he found a reprieve from the waking nightmare.
    In the light of day...
    Powell woke to sunlight pouring through the open window. At first he was afraid he'd slept in and missed the beginning of his shift, but soon the memories of the night before came flooding back. Roslyn coming to the station with bite marks... the zombies in the streets of Pecan Valley... the little girl clinging to Lewis' leg... Lewis staring up at him with one dull eye and half of a face...
    "You're finally awake," a woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sit up and have something to drink; you must be thirsty." Powell turned his head and saw a plump woman who appeared to be in her forties, not that he'd ever been good at guessing a women's age. He blinked, slowly rolling to his side in an attempt to delay becoming vertical once again. Once he was up, he'd have to figure out what his next plan of action would be and where he was going to go from here. "I've made you some toast as well, but that can wait until after you've gotten some fluid into you." She held the glass to his lips and he took a sip of the offered water.
    He hadn't realized how dry his mouth and throat were until those first few drops hit his tongue. He sat up, taking the offered glass, and drained it in one long gulp. "Thank you," he croaked, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
    The woman set a plate with a piece of toast on it in Powell's lap and plucked the empty glass from his hands. "I'll give you a few minutes. Eat the toast and I'll be back with a bigger glass of water." She smiled gently and left the room.
    The clock on the nightstand informed Powell it was just after two in the afternoon, reminding him he hadn't called his wife last night to let her know what was happening. He dug into his pocket, pulled out the cell phone she insisted he carry, and grimaced when the screen read there were four missed calls and two voicemail. He didn't bother listening to the voicemails; rather, he hit the key to call home and took a bite of the toast.
    "That won't work." The woman stood at the door holding a large glass of water. She was right; the phone beeped a fast busy in his ear. "I'm Ruth. Whenever you're ready, we're down in the basement. We don't want anyone on the main floor for too long as it might attract unwanted attention," she said, as she handed him the glass of water and retreated, leaving him alone once again.
    Powell took another long swig of the water and stood, going to the window and looking down onto the street. He could see Roslyn's house from here, but the garage door was still open along with the inner door and his hopes in finding her daughter inside faded. Turning on his radio, he called into the station but there was no response. He watched a zombie wander aimlessly along the street as he shoved the rest of the toast in his mouth. He needed to relieve himself, he realized, and wandered into the hallway of the small home.
    Just as he was washing his hands, his radio squawked. "Who was that trying to call in?" the strange female voice, he didn't recognize, asked in a whisper.
    "Officer Richard Powell," he responded. "Why wasn't there an answer when I first called in and who is this?"
    "Oh thank God! This is Tracy from booking