Zombie D.O.A. Series Four: The Complete Series Four by Zep JJ

Author:Zep, JJ [Zep, JJ]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2013-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

Kill The Dead

(Book Fifteen of the Zombie D.O.A. Series)

J.J. Zep

PUBLISHED BY:

JJ Zep

Copyright © 2013

www.jjzep.com

one

A pair of explosions ripped across the frigid, morning twilight, the first at a distance, the second much closer, its fat thump bouncing back off the empty buildings, off the expanse of ice, off the embankment on the other side of the Hudson. A geyser of debris - football-sized chunks of plaster and cinder - was thrown a hundred feet into the air, to hurtle earthward and rupture the frozen surface of the river. Cracks appeared, snaking out like alien serpents; the surface itself appeared to drift, to shift underfoot.

Chris felt himself pitched forward. He twisted and broke the fall by coming down on the meat of his upper arm. He rolled and brought the AK instantly into a firing position… then stopped.

The mass of zombies that just seconds before had been shuffling across the ice determined to tear him and his team apart, had stalled. Their heads were cocked at odd angles, as though tuning in to some unknown frequency. Those beyond, on the Hudson River Greenway, on the streets, had assumed a similar posture. They stood, unmoving, an army of scarecrows, the breeze fluttering their ragged attire.

“Boss?” Paulie queried from beside him. “Boss, what do we do?”

Chris stilled him with a hand, came up into a crouch and signaled for his team to hold their positions. Truth be told, he had no idea how to respond to this turn of events. In all of the sixteen years since the initial zombie outbreak, he’d never seen anything like it. He’d seen Z’s react this way of course, usually in response to particular radio frequencies, but he’d never seen a radio frequency achieve this effect. It was as though every zombie in the Wastelands was participating in a bizarre game of Simon Says.

Simon says stop and listen.

His attention was drawn to one Z in particular, an emaciated old crone with a face split almost exactly down the middle, one half showing skull bones the color of marzipan, the other, a mask of putrid, rubberized flesh. This Z had begun slowly to turn and now started shuffling towards shore. Another zombie followed, and another, until the whole throng was in motion, their shuffling gait taking them back towards the riverbank.

There was movement in the park too, and on the streets. An exodus was underway, thousands of the creatures, tens of thousands, stepping grudgingly, a black mass of the undead, heading south, a trajectory that would take them towards lower Manhattan, towards his family.

Panic bubbled up and he stilled it. He scanned the shoreline, seeking not so much a path, as an inspiration. Was there a way out of here? If there was, he didn’t see it.

He was perhaps fifty yards from shore, the ice under his feet stable, but that behind him fissured, wafer thin in places, the flow of the river clearly visible underneath. Closer in, the surface had been broken by grenades and claymores.

The only way

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