Free The Living Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Coast by L.I. Albemont Page B

had wreaked their havoc and moved on.
    Even though there was no evidence any of them were still in the area, David and Bea walked with weapons ready, listening for footsteps and sniffing the air for traces of decay. They thought they saw occasional footprints but the ground was a carpet of springy moss and it was hard to be sure. The trail emerged from the woods into a graveled parking lot. They were in a park, Salt Lick State Park, according to a grayed, wooden sign. Another sign directed them to a trail for the Nature Center and The Cascades.
    They descended back into more woods briefly and soon heard the roar of water. Lots of water from the sound of it. Passing by a log built building, the Nature Center, they found stone steps leading down. The water was really loud now and turning a bend in the path, they stopped.
    Just below them a magnificent series of waterfalls cascaded down a rocky bluff, ending in a white pool of churning water far below. Bea almost exclaimed in delight at the sight then abruptly closed her mouth.
    An assembly of the dead stood below them on the apron of huge flat rocks leading to the cascade’s first cataract. They shuffled agitatedly, almost in unison, clearly excited by the sound of the water. A white-eyed child in red-stained, footed pajamas, half his jaw gone and the other half dangling, stepped too close to the edge and went over, body splattering among the rocks below. His unheeding comrades continued their slow dance of the dead.
    Bea and David backed away silently and climbed the rock steps, the sound of the water gradually fading. Bea kept glancing over her shoulder to see if they were followed but saw nothing.
    Breaking into the Nature Center involved one hard kick to a decrepit metal door back near the tightly locked dumpster. The trash was more secure than the building. Probably to keep bears from coming around.
    They entered through what was presumably a break room. There was a sink, microwave and mini-fridge that stank of spoiled food. David found an unopened box of crackers. A short hallway led into an atrium with various displays relating to the flora and fauna of the region. Skylights only dimly lit the room and the air smelled musty.
    Bea went straight for the ladies’ room. Clear water gushed from the tap and she splashed her face and neck then drank thirstily. The soap dispenser was empty or she would have attempted a sink bath. Instead did what she could with wet paper towels.
    She found David in the atrium scrolling through something on his phone while absentmindedly eating crackers. He offered her the box and she grabbed a handful.
    “Any news?
    “Nothing. Just updates on personnel and contact information. We must be losing a lot of people. They keep changing.”
    Bea nodded and wandered off, looking at the glass display cases. There were several stuffed foxes and two chipmunks, all a little dusty. The glass eyes looked cloudy, reminding her uncomfortably of the dead. She shivered.
    A faded series of illustrations on the wall caught her eye. They detailed the local effects of a swarm of earthquakes that struck the area in the winter of 1811-1812. According to the text the Cascades, formerly a single, sheer waterfall, were created over a period of three months and three or four separate earthquake events. There was an ink sketch of the original fall then several more illustrations of the Cascades.
    In addition there were enlarged photographs of various sand blows created by the quakes. One was so large it was known as the Kentucky Sahara and was a popular spot for campers who liked riding the dunes with ATVs.
    The display further detailed a bit of local lore:
    “This area was in many ways still considered the western frontier, sparsely populated and with towns few and far between.
    One town, Elm’s Corners, was cut off for months by rock slides and a river that changed course during the aftershocks. When outsiders finally reached the town, they found the entire