Battlefield Z Zombie Blues Highway by Lowry Chris

Author:Lowry, Chris
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Ozarks Media
Published: 2017-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“You’re pretty good at killing,” Jean said. “I knew some men, boys really, back before the zombies that were in a gang. They had killed before, but they didn’t take to it like you did.”

Like I did.

It took a zombie apocalypse to discover my special talent, and it was something that would put me behind bars for life in a different world.

I remembered reading about killers in that world, men who took to a life of crime, or authors trying to share something they learned from cops. Most people only killed one person, and it was someone they knew in a crime of passion.

The ones who could murder more than a single person were rare, despite what news would have you think. Those who could kill as many as I had were rarer still, falling into a category called serial in the civilian world.

Soldiers were different.

They were trained to think different, and unless they were snipers, couldn’t normally keep track of their kill ratio.

Which made me wonder what I was?

I wasn’t a soldier.

I wasn’t a serial killer, or at least I didn’t kill for fun.

I just did what had to be done.

And it came too easy, too fast for me to know what was happening, and when I realized it, I tried not to think about it.

If you dwell on the numbers, it gets worse.

Like thinking about the past, and reliving all those moments where something should have been different. I called them ghosts.

Ghosts were real, and they haunted you, but it wasn’t a spook in a sheet with two eyeholes cut out.

They were memories, as real as the feelings they caused. Sometimes hard to banish in the dark, fed by firelight and boogiemen fueled under the stars, or hidden in the shadows.

“I just do it,” I confessed. “I don’t think about it.”

Because thinking about it would drive me crazy.

“It’s probably best you don’t,” Jean advised. “Maybe it’s something you have a natural talent for doing.”

“Maybe.”

“Or you hate people.”

Maybe that too, but I didn’t say it aloud. I didn’t think I hated people though. I had done too much to save some along the way. I guess what I hated were bullies. People who used their strength, their power over others.

Kept them as slaves.

Kept them as objects.

Bullies like my stepdad. That’s what started it, started the rage. Growing up poor, wearing second hand clothes, reeking of cigarette smoke that covered the house in a miasma. Kids at school were cruel. Always.

One pair of jeans to wear every day, new for the school year, and a second pair at Christmas if we were lucky. Growth spurts were the worst. They created highwaters, hems that drifted higher over the ankles. No pants to replace them though, because they still fit in the waist.

And if the waist got tight, half servings for supper so we shrank.

Imagine being punished for growing. Starving until you fit in clothes that were too small, too short.

The kids at school bullying because you brought half a sandwich for lunch, wearing pants too short, because you smelled.

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