The Crossing: A Zombie Novella (9 page)

Maurice and Leslie broke into a run, their pursuer closing the distance between them. Maurice wanted to believe that it wasn’t one of them, but a regular person would say something. A regular person wouldn’t run full speed down flights of stairs towards strangers.

He heard the footsteps stop, and then he heard a crash, as if the person had jumped the last few stairs on a landing and hit the wall. Leslie reached for the door to the first floor. For a terrifying second Maurice imagined the door not opening, the thing above them descending, getting closer and closer, and when the door popped open, there would be five of them, ten of them, and they would all reach for Alexander.

Nothing came in. They ran into the hallway.

END OF PREVIEW

PREVIEW

SCAVENGERS: A ZOMBIE NOVEL

By Nate Southard

"Nate Southard's
Scavengers
has got everything fans of the zombie genre crave: huge cannibalistic crowds of the undead, violent, almost continuous action, mounting paranoia and dread... Not since Richard Matheson have we had a writer so adept at dangling the average American guy on the end of a rope so we can watch him twitch and turn in the wind."

-Joe McKinney, author of
Dead City
and
Flesh Eaters

“
Nate Southard. Dude’s gonna be huge one day… one of the best new writers of his generation, and something new by him is always cause for celebration. I’m a big fan.”

-Brian Keene, author of
Dead Sea
and
Ghoul

Blake stared in shock at what remained of Rundberg. Like most everybody else in Millwood, he hadn’t seen any destruction up close and in person. He remembered grainy, frenzied footage on the news channels, garbled radio broadcasts full of panicked voices. He’d heard a few stories from those who’d escaped more populated areas and made their way to Millwood, but nothing had prepared him for what he saw on Front Street as they entered Rundberg. Maybe a show about Beirut he’d watched years before, but that was only an approximation.

Most of the homes along the right hand side of the road were now little more than blackened shells or skeletons. Almost all of the trees had died, though a few showed a splash of green leaves amid the branches that were mostly charcoal. Across the street stood a collection of houses that looked a few hundred years older than their actual age. Window frames had lost their glass and roofs had caved in. Just past Catalpa Street, somebody had driven a Ford Bronco through the front of a one-story. The driver’s door hung open, but the window had shattered, and Blake made out the reddish-brown streaks of dried blood on what remained of the glass. More cars had been abandoned up and down the road. A broken skeleton, the skull shattered and the flesh long picked clean, lay splayed across the front of a Toyota that had wrapped around a tree. Blake thought the victim had probably flown face-first through the windshield and into the thick trunk. Probably lucky in the long run.

“
Where the fuck are they?” Chris asked.

“
Quiet.”

Chris turned around and raised his voice. “They can hear the fucking truck, Blake. My voice isn’t gonna make things worse. Shit, who knows if they’re even going to show?”

He gave Chris the finger, received one in return. He turned away and scanned the area again. As much as he hated to admit it, the guy did have a point. Where had all the dead gone? He didn’t guess they would have moved on in search of food. Some of them might have done just that, but they’d never be lucky enough for the rest to follow suit. Besides, the stink of rot and death was stronger here. It clung to the town like a fog.

He wondered why Morris was taking it so slow instead of gunning it for the grocery store. Looking past the cab, he found the answer. A snarl of twisted, black metal lay in the middle of the street. Another wreck. Morris piloted around it. Blake looked down into the wreckage and found no bodies. They’d either been dragged free or crawled out on their own after the fact.

“
Jesus.”

A wheezing cry split the air. Blake jumped before moving to comfort Jeremy, sure the kid had lost what little of his nerve remained. When he reached out, however, he found Jeremy’s mouth shut. The boy looked scared, his eyes darting in all directions, but he remained silent.

Oh, shit,
he thought.
Here they come.

————————————

“
Got one,” Eric said, excitement sparking his voice like electricity through ancient wiring.

“
I see it,” Morris answered. He didn’t need to follow Eric’s pointing finger. He’d seen the thing the second it left the half-collapsed home and darted for the street, arms swinging like overcooked pasta. Its gray, sagging flesh soaked up the sunlight and made it something sickly. It charged onto the pavement and came right at them. He met its pale, hungry eyes and zeroed in, taking aim. He caught a hint of movement somewhere behind the thing, but he shut it out.

This is it. No turning back now.

The street was clear between the truck and the zombie, the distance closing fast. Morris took a deep breath and held it. Hate rose in him like fire. This monstrosity was everything he despised, and he would destroy it.

He stomped on the gas, and the truck roared.

“
What are you doing?” Eric asked.

He didn’t answer. He felt his jaw tighten, but he wasn’t aware of clenching it. His fingers choked the wheel, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. Somewhere far away, he heard Stevenson yell, “Oh shit!” If he’d checked the rearview, he would have seen the man duck below the cab and cover his head with both arms.

He felt the engine rumble with angry life, saw the running corpse rocket toward them, and then zombie and truck collided.

Visibility disappeared as the dead man burst like a tick, a soupy mix of black fluids splattering the windshield. The creature’s head bounced off the glass and went flying. A rope of intestine followed, twisting over the filthy glass like a dead snake. The smell intensified, and Eric moaned into his hand.

Morris hit the brakes as the thing’s legs powdered beneath the truck’s tires. The pickup slid to a stop in the middle of Front Street. He realized he was holding his breath, so he let out his air and took in more. He felt a little better, kind of satisfied.

He turned to look at Eric, found him staring in disgust at the filth-covered windshield.

“
Sorry about that.”

“
Can we go, please?”

“
Sure.”

He pulled the wiper lever and gave the windshield some fluid. The wipers pushed the muck into streaks and finally cleaned it away, leaving him plenty of visibility.

He didn’t like what he saw.

————————————

“
Oh shit! Duck!” Chris said as he followed his own advice.

Blake felt the quick crunch of the truck hitting a body, and in the next instant a stinking black rain splattered him and the others. His muscles drew up involuntarily as the sticky wetness and accompanying stench hit him. A head sailed over them and bounced twice off the flatbed before tumbling into the street. A moment later, a trail of intestine slid over the cab and fell on Stevenson’s shoulders. The man screamed as his arms jerked, trying to shake off the blackened entrails. Jeremy cowered, afraid the thing might touch him.

Blake could only watch. He felt the truck stop, but he couldn’t turn away from Chris and the spastic dance the man did as he tried to get rid of his new accessory. The horrible absurdity entranced him, and he didn’t even wipe at the terrible mess that flecked his skin.

Chris wheezed as he grabbed the fleshy rope in both hands and sent it sailing over the side. The man stared at his hands as the truck sat in the middle of the filthy street.

“
Chris?” Blake asked. “You okay?”

The man laughed. It started as chuckles and then became full guffaws as the pickup got rolling again. He searched for madness in the man’s eyes but didn’t find any. This was something else.

“
Holy shit!” Chris said. “Now, that’s a fucking party, boys!”

Blake looked away, wiped the muck from his skin, careful to keep it away from his eyes and mouth. He’d need to find water soon. Maybe there was some in the cab.

“
I’m gonna be sick,” Jeremy said. The undulating sound of his voice backed up the claim.

“
Just hang it over the side, little buddy,” Chris said. “We’re having some fun…”

Blake turned at the sound on Chris’s dying voice. He saw the man stare out at the street and ruined homes, his eyes going wide and the color draining from his face.

“
Oh, Jesus Hell,” Chris said.

He followed the man’s gaze and saw them. Zombies charged out of every home, out of the scattered woods behind houses. Dozens ran from Catalpa and sprinted down Front Street, predators realizing somebody had put the soup on. Their rotted forms jumbled in his vision, becoming a wall of gray, green, and horrible brown.

With numb fingers, he scooped up the shotgun. He scrambled for the trigger and almost pulled it without aiming. Somebody had dropped ice into his gut, and it sent cold spikes of terror into his brain. He tried to steady his hands, but they fought him for control. Every stinking breath made him shake harder.

“
Oh, shit,” Blake said.

The truck wasn’t accelerating fast enough. The zombies came from all sides and closed quickly. He gave the road ahead a panicked glance and saw more undead charging from up the street. Jesus, had all three thousand of the bastards decided to hit them right now?

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to catch Chris jamming the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. Beyond him, Jeremy curled into a ball and screamed. He wanted to do the same thing, but something told him he couldn’t, not yet.

“
C’mon, Ellis,” Stevenson said as he sighted down the barrel. “Don’t you dare leave me alone here.”

The rifle cracked, and the ice in his gut shattered.

The approaching wall of rot separated into individual targets. Blake jacked the shotgun once and planted it in his shoulder. He swung the weapon to the right, where the zombies had closed to within twenty feet of the truck and were stampeding toward the side, and pulled the trigger. The twelve-gauge bucked hard in his hands, and a head that showed more skull than flesh disintegrated along with the thing’s neck and chest. The monsters on either side of the destroyed zombie flew backwards and crashed into the throng. More bodies surged forward to take their place, angry waves at high tide. A few climbed onto the trailer, only to tumble off when they tried to stand.

The truck accelerated, and Blake shifted onto one knee, centering his weight. He pulled the trigger, and another zombie blew apart. Beside him, Chris snapped off a few more shots before pausing to change out a magazine.

He saw a sagging body tumble past and fall apart as it struck the concrete. He guessed it had tried to grab onto the side of the pickup. The rest of the dead whipped past, running but unable to keep up.

Holy shit,
he thought.
We might actually make it through this.

Then the truck slowed down and one of the zombies leaped into the bed.

END OF PREVIEW

PREVIEW

REANIMATED AMERICANS: A ZOMBIE NOVEL

By Martin Mundt

“
With REANIMATED AMERICANS, author Martin Mundt has created a malignant masterpiece.  Like a literary mad scientist armed with diabolical narrative skill and a mordant sense of humor, Mundt manages to mash-up the zombie mythos with both mayhem and Swiftian satire.  REANIMATED AMERICANS is a must-read for undead-heads of all persuasions, slithering from laugh-out-loud sequences to gut-wrenching gore with the greatest of ease.  Highly recommended!”

- Jay Bonansinga, National Bestselling author of PERFECT VICTIM, PINKERTON’S WAR, and co-author of THE WALKING DEAD: RISE OF THE GOVERNOR.

“
We oughta be killing them, you know,” said Tully. “Well, killing them
again
, I mean. I’m telling you, these zombies aren’t some mass, electrical muscle-twitch; some random, evolutionary experiment. They’re an invasion. All right, all right, a bunch of people have already tumbled to that, but they’re not the invasion that everybody thinks.”

He propped his right foot up on the wooden bench that ran between the two rows of lockers. He hiked his pant leg up and slid a Glock 70 into an ankle holster. He was short and wiry, with glossy blond hair slicked back and tied into a tiny ponytail like some coke dealer in an ’80s documentary on the History Channel.