Read Online Last Man Standing (Book 1): Hunger by Keith Taylor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Keith Taylor
Tags: Zombies
Ads: Link
of a macabre advent calendar.
"Jesus, they were all caught at home," mutters Kate, crossing herself as she spots the beaten body of a small boy in SpongeBob pajamas He's lying halfway across the threshold, as if he was trying to escape when he died. He'd look like he was sleeping if it wasn't for the fact that his left leg is broken and twisted forward at the knee, like an ostrich.
I shiver despite the warmth of the car. I can imagine it all too well. Waking up to the sound of a crowd running outside. Rushing down to the front door to check out the commotion, only discovering what was going on when it was too late. When they were already through the door. Already beating, tearing and biting. Who knows how many died in their nightgowns? How many were killed before they even awoke?
Thank fuck I live on a dead end street.
This must be why I didn't see anything on the way to the coffee shop. Our place is in an old, sketchy industrial neighborhood that used to be home to a few small factories and warehouses. It's in the process of being gentrified, but right now the buildings are mostly boarded up and gutted. If the infected are attracted to sound, or light, or... I don't know, the smell of humans there wasn't much to draw them to my little cul-de-sac. They must have flowed right by as I slept, drawn by the sound of the fireworks from the boats on the river.
"Heads up, kids." Arnold tears me back from my imagination. "We got action here." He points ahead, a little further down the arrow straight Flatbush to the intersection with 7th Avenue. A truck trailer has been pulled most of the way across the road, its rear pushed up against the front window of a Duane Reade, leaving a gap just large enough for a car to pass between the truck and the stores on the other side of the street. On top of the trailer a couple of soldiers - or, at least, guys who look like soldiers to my untrained eye - stand and watch us. One peers through a set of binoculars for a long moment then turns and speaks to his partner, who lifts a hand and waves us closer.
Arnold pulls the car forward at a little more than walking pace until we're just a few car lengths from the trailer, and one of the soldiers holds up a hand then waves it in a circle. Roll down your window .
"Do you have any injured?" he calls out.
Arnold pokes his head out the window and calls back. "What was that? Speak up, son."
The soldier leans forward and yells. "Any injured? Anyone bitten? No injured allowed."
Arnold turns to Kate with a questioning look. She looks at me for approval, then gives him a nod. "It's OK, we won't tell." Fuck that. I'm sure they're hurting for medical supplies in there, but we're not about to leave Arnold to fend for himself out here for the sake of a little bite.
"Uh uh," he calls back. "Nobody here but us chickens. You got survivors in the park? I'm looking for my wife."
The soldier doesn't answer. He lifts a radio and speaks into it for a moment before turning back to us. "Turn right on 7th," he yells, his voice echoing across the street. "Then continue forward to 9th Street and add your car to the roadblock."
At that he waves us through with his gun. Arnold doesn't wait for anything else. He shifts the car into gear and drives quickly through the gap, his face glistening with sweat and his breathing heavy.
"Thank you," he says in a quiet, shaky voice. "I know you should have turned me in." He shifts in his seat and winces at the pain. The cream leather beneath him squeaks as he moves, and I see it's stained red. "Don't worry, Marcy'll know to have brought a first aid kit. No need to waste supplies patching up an old timer like me."
We slowly drive down 7th Avenue, and for the first time since the moment I flicked on the TV this morning I almost feel safe. At each intersection the street is blocked by cars and trucks, some of them piled on top of one another. They must have some kind of
"Jesus, they were all caught at home," mutters Kate, crossing herself as she spots the beaten body of a small boy in SpongeBob pajamas He's lying halfway across the threshold, as if he was trying to escape when he died. He'd look like he was sleeping if it wasn't for the fact that his left leg is broken and twisted forward at the knee, like an ostrich.
I shiver despite the warmth of the car. I can imagine it all too well. Waking up to the sound of a crowd running outside. Rushing down to the front door to check out the commotion, only discovering what was going on when it was too late. When they were already through the door. Already beating, tearing and biting. Who knows how many died in their nightgowns? How many were killed before they even awoke?
Thank fuck I live on a dead end street.
This must be why I didn't see anything on the way to the coffee shop. Our place is in an old, sketchy industrial neighborhood that used to be home to a few small factories and warehouses. It's in the process of being gentrified, but right now the buildings are mostly boarded up and gutted. If the infected are attracted to sound, or light, or... I don't know, the smell of humans there wasn't much to draw them to my little cul-de-sac. They must have flowed right by as I slept, drawn by the sound of the fireworks from the boats on the river.
"Heads up, kids." Arnold tears me back from my imagination. "We got action here." He points ahead, a little further down the arrow straight Flatbush to the intersection with 7th Avenue. A truck trailer has been pulled most of the way across the road, its rear pushed up against the front window of a Duane Reade, leaving a gap just large enough for a car to pass between the truck and the stores on the other side of the street. On top of the trailer a couple of soldiers - or, at least, guys who look like soldiers to my untrained eye - stand and watch us. One peers through a set of binoculars for a long moment then turns and speaks to his partner, who lifts a hand and waves us closer.
Arnold pulls the car forward at a little more than walking pace until we're just a few car lengths from the trailer, and one of the soldiers holds up a hand then waves it in a circle. Roll down your window .
"Do you have any injured?" he calls out.
Arnold pokes his head out the window and calls back. "What was that? Speak up, son."
The soldier leans forward and yells. "Any injured? Anyone bitten? No injured allowed."
Arnold turns to Kate with a questioning look. She looks at me for approval, then gives him a nod. "It's OK, we won't tell." Fuck that. I'm sure they're hurting for medical supplies in there, but we're not about to leave Arnold to fend for himself out here for the sake of a little bite.
"Uh uh," he calls back. "Nobody here but us chickens. You got survivors in the park? I'm looking for my wife."
The soldier doesn't answer. He lifts a radio and speaks into it for a moment before turning back to us. "Turn right on 7th," he yells, his voice echoing across the street. "Then continue forward to 9th Street and add your car to the roadblock."
At that he waves us through with his gun. Arnold doesn't wait for anything else. He shifts the car into gear and drives quickly through the gap, his face glistening with sweat and his breathing heavy.
"Thank you," he says in a quiet, shaky voice. "I know you should have turned me in." He shifts in his seat and winces at the pain. The cream leather beneath him squeaks as he moves, and I see it's stained red. "Don't worry, Marcy'll know to have brought a first aid kit. No need to waste supplies patching up an old timer like me."
We slowly drive down 7th Avenue, and for the first time since the moment I flicked on the TV this morning I almost feel safe. At each intersection the street is blocked by cars and trucks, some of them piled on top of one another. They must have some kind of
Similar Books
