The Zombies of Lancaster by Jason Scimitar

Author:Jason Scimitar
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Zombies
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Pilgrims

The Fredrick Schneidholst Family were vintage Amish. They had lived in Lancaster County for more than one hundred years. Fredrick’s father had taught him all of the Amish ways, but a horde of zombies put him down as he milked his cows in the barn on his last morning. Later, Fredrick was accosted by his father's zombie corpse, and as his father's zombie corpse reached for his throat, his son, Fredrick, put him out of his misery by impaling him with his own pitch fork. Fredrick stabbed him in the head, then stomped his skull until it burst open on the ground.

Now, he was running away in order to survive. He drove his mother, Bertha, and his wife, Donna, and his sons, Sigurd and Johannes, and his daughter, Hilda, to a safer place. The family farm had been robbed by Lancaster townsmen just trying to find enough food to survive. The cattle had been killed and partially eaten by the zombies, and its chickens were taken and consumed as well. There was nothing left for the family to do but to leave for safer quarters before they were completely surrounded.

Fredrick stole a car from a parking lot in Lancaster, one of thousands abandoned there by people who had abandoned them for greener pastures. Zombies paced between the cars, so Fredrick Schneidholst had to take a pistol and a bat with him. He found a car with a key under the floor mat. It started. He picked up his family and headed down the road leading them outside of Lancaster.

"Daddy, remember, we are Amish, and we aren't allowed to drive cars," Sigurd reminded him.

"I know, son, but they'd kill us in our little Amish taxi, and you know God doesn't want that to happen to us. So, we are driving from now on just for our safety or until this emergency has ended."

"Whatever," Bertha said.

She was his mother. Anything Fredrick thought was right, she'd accept and even support, because in her mind, blood was thicker than water. Besides, now that her husband was dead and Fredrick had killed him, Bertha was bound and determined to support her son no matter what.

"It's against God's will to drive a mechanical automobile," Sigurd lamented. "You're going to hell for this, dad. You know that, don't you?"

"No, I don't know that, son. Now, you may be going to hell, but not me. At least not today, because the droolers can't get into this car and kill us today, son," his father told him.

"Better dead than damned," Sigurd told him.

"Better a pink butt than a red one," Fredrick said, "and you are begging to be spanked, little boy. Just one more word, and you will be."

Sigurd figured he was too old for a spanking. He was eighteen now and had dreamed of leaving home and wilding with his friends. He wanted so badly to try out the English world, probably in New York or Pittsburgh. He had planned to get into a lot of trouble,

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