 |
I have the privilege of being among the many writers who will be helping David Simpson launch the release of Zombie Road VIII: Crossroads of Chaos this weekend on Reading Zombie. I'll be hosting the event on Saturday and Sunday, 24 and 25 April, from 11 AM to noon EST.
I hope you'll join me and the others this weekend. We're going to have a great time.
Half an hour later a farm appeared on the horizon, a two-story house with a hundred acres of farmland behind it. Someone had sown the crops since the outbreak. Off to the left stood a red-painted stable with a fenced in area surrounding it. The gate remained closed. A silo stood off to the right. Alissa studied the property for signs of life but saw none.
The convoy stopped in front of the house. Abney and Lindsey climbed out. Alissa and Nathan joined them. A woman exited the ambulance to join them. She was an attractive woman with blonde hair and a little older than Abney. She wore sand-colored military-style pants and an olive drab t-shirt, a French Foreign Legion hat with a back covering that shielded her neck and hair, and a tan handkerchief tied around her neck. She carried an axe as a weapon. As they approached the house, Alissa noticed that the front and screen doors had been left open. A snarl came from inside. Everyone stopped. Alissa and Nathan pulled the Carbines off their shoulder. None of the others seemed concerned.
A deader centered itself in the doorway, a young man, probably in his mid-twenties. He wore nice clothes, his polyester shirt stained down the left arm and back with blood. While human, he had tried to commit suicide by shooting himself in the head. Either his aim had been off or the weapon had been of a small caliber, and he only succeeded in blasting off the top left side of his skull. The bullet had missed the primordial nervous system that drove the deaders. Judging by the lack of decay, this was one of the recent dead, which meant they faced a runner. Alissa raised her weapon to fire.
Lindsey stopped her. “We got this.”
“Joan?” asked Abney.
“I’m on it.” Joan stepped forward a few paces, raised the axe above her head, and whistled.
The deader focused on her, snarled, and charged. Joan judged the distance and threw the axe. It somersaulted once before the blade struck the deader in the center of its forehead, slicing half-way through its skull. It continued charging for a few more feet before it collapsed in front of Joan. She stepped forward, placed her foot on its chest, and yanked the axe free.
“I don’t believe it,” mumbled Nathan.
“You should.” Abney grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “That’s Joan MacLeod, axe throwing champion for Clay County for three years in a row.”
Joan gave him a thumbs up before wiping the blade off on the deader’s shirt.
Movement came from inside the house, followed by sound.
