Cajun Zombie Chronicles (Book 2): Island Dead by Smith S. L

Author:Smith, S. L. [Smith, S. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Zombies
Publisher: Holy Water Books
Published: 2019-03-19T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN: BARNSTOKK

Isherwood dropped silently through the trap door and onto the stairs below. There was a welcoming party, but he was relieved there weren’t more. “Y’all are like rats, you know?” He whispered as he skullcapped a nicely dressed woman, likely another interstate zombie. “Or girl scouts. Turn your back for just a second, and you’ve come spilling out of the woodwork.”

He wanted to heave himself onto the railing of the stairway and swing his feet into the chest of the next oncoming zombie, but he held himself back. It was easier to chop them down, one by one, as he descended the stairs. Besides, he thought, the railings were slick with gore and nastiness. Just his luck, he goes sliding down into the hacked up dogpile he had created earlier.

He struggled to retrieve his sword from the wood piling. It was easy to overestimate the sharpness and power of this sword, Isherwood thought as he saw how far the blade had sank into the wood. He didn’t have the time to do this correctly, even if he knew how. He stabbed one sword into the soft earth. Looking around, he kicked his foot up onto the timber post. He then jumped up and grabbed the hilt of the sword and then let the weight of his fall jerk down on the sword. He did this a few more times. It hadn’t budged.

“Oh, come on!” Isherwood called out, a little too loud. He was suddenly aware of the pain and fatigue in his arms and legs, and of the cold sweat at the back of his neck that meant heat exhaustion.

“Alright, have it your way. Give me my sword,” and he pulled again at the sword. The sword came out smoothly this time, as if it lay loose for him. “Whoa.” He coughed, looking down suspiciously at the sword in his hand. He quickly looked around. He shook his head, disappointed that no one had seen it. Not even a zombie. He reached up along the timber piling, just above where the sword had been embedded only a moment ago. He felt something written there. There were letters carved into the wood.

“Probably Croatoan.” He said, rolling his eyes. He pulled up on the wood to get a better look. “Barstool? Must be a manufacturer’s mark or something stupid. No, wait. It’s Barnstokk? What the heck is that?” He shook his head, assuming it was some Norwegian timber producer or something, and walked off toward the next camp.

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