Frayed: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser

Author:Shawn Chesser [Chesser, Shawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Morbid Press LLC
Published: 2015-07-30T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 38

A short while after adding a number of fresh lesions to his knuckles, Duncan was sitting in the passenger seat and pounding his fist on the dash in perfect time with the chains thrumming against the freshly plowed road.

“What’s eating you?” asked Daymon, taking his eyes off the road for a long two-count.

Seemingly hypnotized by the shiny wood veneer fronting the glove compartment, Duncan stared and drummed, but made no reply.

Nonplussed by the lack of response, Daymon shook his head and shifted his gaze forward just as the 4Runner two car lengths ahead rolled over an adult-sized corpse, splitting it in half at the hips and sending the two pieces spinning off in entirely different directions. He muttered an expletive as the legs and pelvis went into a lazy flat spin across the snow and became hopelessly tangled up against the right-side guardrail. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was channeling a sailor and his muttered curse words were a full on verbal assault on his own bad luck. And though his reflexes were superb, due to the effect the chains had on both the steering and acceleration, when he tried to wheel around the three-foot-long chunk of legless upper torso, the maneuver was not entirely successful. Like hitting a speed bump at thirty-five miles per hour, the luxury sport-utility rose up on the left side, but only shortly, because the speed bump was a skull and, bone not having the same properties as cured asphalt, it imploded, sending a hollow sounding pop coursing up through the floorboards. In reaction to the sudden change in angle, in unison, both men listed left and then jerked back to the right as the rig settled back to earth and the metronomic cadence that had been vibrating the chassis and their teeth returned, as loud and annoying as ever.

Still grimacing from the imagined visual produced by the awful noise, Duncan answered the question. “What’s eating me?” he said, voice rising an octave. “A whole bunch of little problems, that’s what. And all of ‘em put together is like a whole school of piranhas tearing me apart bit by bit.”

“I feel ya,” Daymon said just as one of the plow trucks delivered a metal hockey check that sent a dozen corpses careening against the canyon wall. “I’m dreading the moment my girl runs out of her pills. Ever since the shit happened in Robert Christian’s mansion she’s been a special flavor of crazy.” He paused for a tick and then went on, “And when they do run out it is going to be ultimatum time for good ‘ol Daymon.”

“What do you mean?” Without conscious thought, Duncan popped open the glove compartment.

Daymon shot him a glare. “Why you goin’ in there?” he asked.

“Habit,” replied Duncan. “An old one that’s dying hard.”

Up ahead, the road took a sharp dip where it looked as if an unchecked stream had spilled down the opposite hillside and eroded the roadbed underneath. The four vehicles ahead of

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