Read Online ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) by Shawn Chesser - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shawn Chesser
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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the bar went dark.
A man standing before the ATM awaiting money let loose with
a string of expletives. He looked toward the bartender, tapped the glass, then
said, “Damn thing still has my card”—the people at the bar swiveled their heads
in unison at that—“and the effin screen is black.”
Chad regarded the man for a second before his attention was
drawn back toward the televisions, all of which were now emblazoned with the Presidential
Seal floating on a powder blue background. At the bottom of each screen were
the words: President Odero set to address the nation.
Chapter 11
Don William Bowen died from rapid and massive blood loss with
a combined three-hundred-plus-pounds of snarling, stinking flesh trying to worm
its way into the already cramped booth with him. To a person walking by, the
sight of two pairs of legs protruding from the booth and scissoring the air
like divers out of water could have easily been confused with a harmless college
prank. Perhaps something as innocent as trying to fit as many co-eds as
possible into a phone booth or two-door Volkswagen Beetle.
But there was nothing innocent about the recent attack. And
the passersby cutting the light spill at the top of the ramp were thinking of
themselves, mostly. Or where their loved ones were at the moment. Or how they
were going to get across the river now that the bridges with moving spans were
all raised and the handful of static crossings were blocked by Portland police,
soldiers, or a combination thereof. Fight or flight instincts had kicked in for
most of those unlucky enough to have their lunch break or downtown shopping junket
cut short by the violence and ongoing random attacks that had all but completely
shut down the entire business core. Therefore, initially, the people transiting
the sidewalk had been no help whatsoever—blinders on and alone in their own
little mental worlds.
For Don the whole ordeal from the initial surprise attack to
him drawing his final breath had lasted all of three minutes and sixteen
seconds. Which was an eternity considering his long legs had become twisted
underneath the spilled office chair, an unforeseen event leaving him off
balance and helpless to fight off the two scruffy men.
In the first frenzied seconds as he hollered at the
attackers and fell off his chair, pain flared in his right forearm and his hand
went numb. The bites suffered there, now an angry shade of bluish purple, were
overshadowed by the fact that three digits of his right hand were now in the stomach
of one of his attackers. And as all of this had been taking place, the other
attacker had gone to work on his neck, biting the fist-sized chasm responsible for
the blood coating the floor and, ultimately, Don’s rapid death.
However, Don did not die easy. Immediately following the virus-tainted
blood’s entry into his brain, he felt every nerve ending in his body suddenly
come alive. Thankfully this phase of the turn was quickly overcome by the onset
of chills that racked his body with tremors even as hunks of flesh were being
rent from his arms, neck, and face. The pulses of mind-numbing cold lasted only
until the blood gushing from his destroyed carotid bulb slowed to a trickle and
his heart fluttered weakly one final time and went still in his chest.
***
Now, a minute and thirty seconds later, with his left cheek
pressed firmly against the wall below the left-side sliding glass, and his neck
bent at a near impossible right-angle, Don was starting to reanimate. All five
fingers on his left hand began vibrating subtly. Next they curled up
reflexively into a fist. Then his eyes snapped open only to see up close the
random linear patterns and grapefruit-sized spot worn into the unfinished wood
where his left knee usually rested. And though it didn’t register as anything
but a few white blurry blobs, there were multiple pieces of chewing gum pressed
under the window sill. As the thing that used to be called Don
A man standing before the ATM awaiting money let loose with
a string of expletives. He looked toward the bartender, tapped the glass, then
said, “Damn thing still has my card”—the people at the bar swiveled their heads
in unison at that—“and the effin screen is black.”
Chad regarded the man for a second before his attention was
drawn back toward the televisions, all of which were now emblazoned with the Presidential
Seal floating on a powder blue background. At the bottom of each screen were
the words: President Odero set to address the nation.
Chapter 11
Don William Bowen died from rapid and massive blood loss with
a combined three-hundred-plus-pounds of snarling, stinking flesh trying to worm
its way into the already cramped booth with him. To a person walking by, the
sight of two pairs of legs protruding from the booth and scissoring the air
like divers out of water could have easily been confused with a harmless college
prank. Perhaps something as innocent as trying to fit as many co-eds as
possible into a phone booth or two-door Volkswagen Beetle.
But there was nothing innocent about the recent attack. And
the passersby cutting the light spill at the top of the ramp were thinking of
themselves, mostly. Or where their loved ones were at the moment. Or how they
were going to get across the river now that the bridges with moving spans were
all raised and the handful of static crossings were blocked by Portland police,
soldiers, or a combination thereof. Fight or flight instincts had kicked in for
most of those unlucky enough to have their lunch break or downtown shopping junket
cut short by the violence and ongoing random attacks that had all but completely
shut down the entire business core. Therefore, initially, the people transiting
the sidewalk had been no help whatsoever—blinders on and alone in their own
little mental worlds.
For Don the whole ordeal from the initial surprise attack to
him drawing his final breath had lasted all of three minutes and sixteen
seconds. Which was an eternity considering his long legs had become twisted
underneath the spilled office chair, an unforeseen event leaving him off
balance and helpless to fight off the two scruffy men.
In the first frenzied seconds as he hollered at the
attackers and fell off his chair, pain flared in his right forearm and his hand
went numb. The bites suffered there, now an angry shade of bluish purple, were
overshadowed by the fact that three digits of his right hand were now in the stomach
of one of his attackers. And as all of this had been taking place, the other
attacker had gone to work on his neck, biting the fist-sized chasm responsible for
the blood coating the floor and, ultimately, Don’s rapid death.
However, Don did not die easy. Immediately following the virus-tainted
blood’s entry into his brain, he felt every nerve ending in his body suddenly
come alive. Thankfully this phase of the turn was quickly overcome by the onset
of chills that racked his body with tremors even as hunks of flesh were being
rent from his arms, neck, and face. The pulses of mind-numbing cold lasted only
until the blood gushing from his destroyed carotid bulb slowed to a trickle and
his heart fluttered weakly one final time and went still in his chest.
***
Now, a minute and thirty seconds later, with his left cheek
pressed firmly against the wall below the left-side sliding glass, and his neck
bent at a near impossible right-angle, Don was starting to reanimate. All five
fingers on his left hand began vibrating subtly. Next they curled up
reflexively into a fist. Then his eyes snapped open only to see up close the
random linear patterns and grapefruit-sized spot worn into the unfinished wood
where his left knee usually rested. And though it didn’t register as anything
but a few white blurry blobs, there were multiple pieces of chewing gum pressed
under the window sill. As the thing that used to be called Don
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