Read Online MZS: Philadelphia (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 3) by K. D. McAdams - Free Book Online

were just as disorganized walking down the street as any of the other small groups I watched come into the square.
    “Who do you work for?”
    “Shhh!” Patrick gives me a funny look.
    I forgot my own recommendation of silence. How long have these guys been “on,” I wonder? None of them look exceptionally sloppy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all showered this morning, but their eyes all hold a sense of exhaustion.
    At the bottom of the stairwell, the flies are thick. It’s only been an hour since I came upon this grisly sight, but the stench seems more powerful. Not wanting to get too close to a rotting corpse, I stop four steps from the bottom.
    “I got your back. Go ahead,” Patrick says.
    Me? I’ve never held a gun in my life. Why doesn’t he take the gun and give me his hockey stick? Should I suggest that or will it incur his as-yet-unseen wrath?
    “I don’t know how to use a gun,” I offer apologetically.
    “Pretty easy. Point and shoot, a lot like a camera.”
    “What about the can of mace?”
    “They seem oblivious to pain, so I’m not sure that would help.”
    “But there are other people out there that we may need to…”
    They have a man—wait, he said two men—pinned down in the Humvee and he doesn’t remember that there are other survivors who may not be nice. I know there is strength in focusing on the task at hand, but during a moment of rest a leader should be able to reengage the big picture.
    “Look, I don’t feel like standing around down here. Get the gun and whatever else you want and let’s get going. I already know your name, so we need to be careful.”
    What does knowing my name have to do with anything? I want to ask but instead just walk down the remaining steps.
    The gun is on the officer’s right hip but at an awkward angle. I have to get down on my knees to pull it out toward the floor. My first pull is weak and the gun barely moves. The second pull is much stronger, but the gun does not come out. I’ve read about smart guns that only fire when the fingerprints match the owner: could this be a smart holster?
    “There’s a strap over the top,” Patrick says.
    I look more closely and see the thin strip of black leather keeping the gun in place. When I unfasten it, the gun almost falls out. I catch it, but am unprepared for the weight and it nearly brings my hand to the floor.
    A frightening surge of power courses through my body. My grip around the gun tightens and I feel invincible. Compared to the hockey stick and knives, my weapon is superior. I will lead this motley band to safety. Rising to my feet, I strike a superman pose.
    “Easy, killer. Check the gun belt and get extra ammo clips,” Patrick says.
    His comment brings me down a peg. I’m not even sure what an ammo clip looks like. From movie-based knowledge, hiding behind the fear in my brain, a black rectangular shape pops into my head. I now have the faintest clue as to what I am looking for, but I don’t see anything.
    “I don’t think he has any.”
    “He does. Roll the body over and look on the other side. The pepper spray was probably a good idea, too; you should grab that before you roll him.”
    Touching a dead body is not an experience on my bucket list. The pepper spray is an easy accomplishment, so I take that. With both hands full, I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to do this. Spiking from extreme confidence to total fear actually makes me light-headed.
    In an effort to steady myself, I reach out for the stairs. The can of pepper spray hits with a loud “ding” and I try to act like I was putting it down instead of nearly fainting. Next I rest the gun on the step and feel good about moving, even though it feels like I’m in quick sand.
    Placing my hands on the shoulders of the slain officer, I push gently. He barely moves. This was a big man, and with all of his equipment there is easily over two hundred pounds for me to deal with.
    Harder, I think to myself as I adjust my