Zombie Ever After by Carl S. Plumer

Author:Carl S. Plumer [Plumer, Carl S.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
Publisher: Someday Press, LLC
Published: 2014-06-21T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 45

Donovan despaired of ever seeing Cathren again. Too many zombies. Walls of zombies, oceans of zombies. Turns out his battle plan wasn’t feasible, since it consisted of checking every floor of every building in the city and surrounding municipalities. Not doable by Donovan. Not by a thousand Donovans.

His plan had been to find help, form a kind of anti-zombie militia. If possible, a sane anti-zombie militia. Donovan had been searching for days since the car crash, unable to find a single entity who wasn’t either undead or out of his living brain. He took advantage of the occasional car with keys and a drop of gas in it. But that never got him very far. Anyway, almost every vehicle around had had its gas siphoned out long ago.

Donovan held a knife in his left hand and a metal baseball bat in the other, a Marucci CAT5 Squared. He hadn’t washed in many dirty days and had grown the beginnings of a beard. Food was scarce and he had been walking for miles. Donovan imagined he must look like a lunatic, albeit—from the lack of food and the constant walking—a ripped and toned lunatic.

He hiked along a path above the highway. From this vantage point, he listened and watched for trouble. No zombies showed themselves, however. Not for days. Did the undead migrate south for the winter?

Out of the blue, someone collided with Donovan and dropped him to the ground like a rock as if he were suddenly involved in a game of surprise tackle football. A man of Goliath proportions—and gigantic stench—knelt on Donovan’s chest, nearly suffocating him.

Goliath thundered a right cross against Donovan’s face, then a left. Donovan was treated to the familiar sight of globules of blood cascading across his field of vision.

“Enough,” someone said, the command uttered by a human-sounding voice. Donovan couldn’t be sure, based on the crazies he’d run into, if that was a good thing.

Goliath grunted, shrugged his shoulders, and stood. He pressed his enormous hand into Donovan’s chest for leverage as he did so.

“Who are you?” the voice in authority said.

Donovan squinted his one good eye and peered toward the voice. A man with a shotgun stood before him. He seemed about as derelict as Donovan imagined himself to be. The man had a kind of hillbilly vibe with a wife beater on top, overalls below, and bare feet. He stood about Donovan’s height, a little older and a lot heavier. He had a ZZ Top-type beard, only shorter and streaked with red and gray.

“Friend or foe?” the man said.

“Friend, I guess,” Donovan said, spitting blood. “Not a zombie or a fossil, if that’s the question.” Donovan stood up and rubbed his cheek.

“You seen the fossils, then?”

“Yep.”

The ranks of the “fossils,” as they’d come to be called, were made up of a subset of the elderly who’d managed to dodge being bitten by zombies, as well as to avoid drinking contaminated water. The insane, the infirm, the aged. Having to deal with

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