Read Online SEAL Team 13 (SEAL Team 13 series) by Evan Currie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Evan Currie
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indifferent air.
“I do not know if you will be of any use, but waste not, want not, as the saying goes,” she told him, confusing Leland even more. “You took one of mine, so you will replace him.”
“What the fuck?…”
She seemed to smile wider, her lips pulling impossibly far back from her teeth in such a way that, for all his confusion, Leland was completely confident in saying that she meant to do him some serious harm. He tried to pull away as she leaned in closer to him, the putrid air from her mouth bathing his face. Her breath was…indescribable. He could smell some kind of mouthwash, peppermint unless he was gravely mistaken, but beneath it the smell of death was still present.
The mixture turned his stomach even more than the pervasive smell of rot and decay alone.
“God, lady, what the hell have you been eating?” He gagged.
She chuckled darkly at him. “It’s funny you should ask—I was just starting to feel a little peckish. Shall I show you what I like to eat?”
“I’ll pass,” he said, twisting his grip on the shotgun so that it was jammed in between them. “Let me go, lady, or—”
“Or what?” she snarled, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun with her free hand.
Fuck this.
Leland squeezed the trigger.
The Remington roared, blowing the woman’s leg out from under her. In that instant, as she was torn away from him and driven to the ground by shock and gravity, Leland found himself fascinated by the expression of sheer annoyance on the woman’s leathery face. He twisted, tearing himself loose, and threw the door open so he could stumble out into the cold fresh air of the darkening night.
Behind him he could hear her swearing, her voice disturbingly free of any sound of pain.
“Get him!”
He didn’t turn around as he staggered over to his Tahoe, slamming his injured arm into the side of the truck hard enough to draw a whimper from his throat. He tried to grab the door handle with his left hand, fumbling against the pain, but couldn’t get his fingers to curl around the handle.
“Fuck!” he swore, slamming the shotgun down on the roof of the Tahoe so he could yank at the door with his good right hand.
He could hear the sound of slush being kicked around behind him, but didn’t look back. He dropped into the driver’s seat, pulling the shotgun in after him, and wrenched the door shut, his injured arm screaming at him the whole time.
Leland swore near constantly, fumbling with his key as a body hit the door, hammering at the window with bare fists. He didn’t know how the window was holding, but as the Tahoe roared to life he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small miracles before gunning the engine and dropping it into drive, the gas pedal already heading for the floor.
The wheels spun for traction against the slush and ice, but then the studs hit the gravel underneath, and the Tahoe lurched forward. He felt, more than heard, a thump as the vehicle struck something, or rather someone. He was headed in the wrong direction, however, and he had to spin around when he reached a fence at the far side of the compound.
They were all out of the machine shop by then, and he was both shocked and dismayed by their sheer numbers.
God, there’s got to be dozens of them.
They were arrayed out in front of him like a human barricade, or a nearly human barricade. His mind rebelled as he sat there in his Tahoe, staring at them. He couldn’t believe he was seeing what he was seeing.
All the figures were milling about, seemingly without purpose—other, that is, than a few who were stumbling along in his general direction. They looked sick, frankly. Deathly ill or, more honestly, like the walking dead. He couldn’t help but think of all the damned zombie movies he’d seen over the years, and the throb from his arm hurt all the more.
That was just insanity, though. A fantastical nightmare, nothing more.
In the real world, the dead didn’t rise. In the real world, zombies
“I do not know if you will be of any use, but waste not, want not, as the saying goes,” she told him, confusing Leland even more. “You took one of mine, so you will replace him.”
“What the fuck?…”
She seemed to smile wider, her lips pulling impossibly far back from her teeth in such a way that, for all his confusion, Leland was completely confident in saying that she meant to do him some serious harm. He tried to pull away as she leaned in closer to him, the putrid air from her mouth bathing his face. Her breath was…indescribable. He could smell some kind of mouthwash, peppermint unless he was gravely mistaken, but beneath it the smell of death was still present.
The mixture turned his stomach even more than the pervasive smell of rot and decay alone.
“God, lady, what the hell have you been eating?” He gagged.
She chuckled darkly at him. “It’s funny you should ask—I was just starting to feel a little peckish. Shall I show you what I like to eat?”
“I’ll pass,” he said, twisting his grip on the shotgun so that it was jammed in between them. “Let me go, lady, or—”
“Or what?” she snarled, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun with her free hand.
Fuck this.
Leland squeezed the trigger.
The Remington roared, blowing the woman’s leg out from under her. In that instant, as she was torn away from him and driven to the ground by shock and gravity, Leland found himself fascinated by the expression of sheer annoyance on the woman’s leathery face. He twisted, tearing himself loose, and threw the door open so he could stumble out into the cold fresh air of the darkening night.
Behind him he could hear her swearing, her voice disturbingly free of any sound of pain.
“Get him!”
He didn’t turn around as he staggered over to his Tahoe, slamming his injured arm into the side of the truck hard enough to draw a whimper from his throat. He tried to grab the door handle with his left hand, fumbling against the pain, but couldn’t get his fingers to curl around the handle.
“Fuck!” he swore, slamming the shotgun down on the roof of the Tahoe so he could yank at the door with his good right hand.
He could hear the sound of slush being kicked around behind him, but didn’t look back. He dropped into the driver’s seat, pulling the shotgun in after him, and wrenched the door shut, his injured arm screaming at him the whole time.
Leland swore near constantly, fumbling with his key as a body hit the door, hammering at the window with bare fists. He didn’t know how the window was holding, but as the Tahoe roared to life he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small miracles before gunning the engine and dropping it into drive, the gas pedal already heading for the floor.
The wheels spun for traction against the slush and ice, but then the studs hit the gravel underneath, and the Tahoe lurched forward. He felt, more than heard, a thump as the vehicle struck something, or rather someone. He was headed in the wrong direction, however, and he had to spin around when he reached a fence at the far side of the compound.
They were all out of the machine shop by then, and he was both shocked and dismayed by their sheer numbers.
God, there’s got to be dozens of them.
They were arrayed out in front of him like a human barricade, or a nearly human barricade. His mind rebelled as he sat there in his Tahoe, staring at them. He couldn’t believe he was seeing what he was seeing.
All the figures were milling about, seemingly without purpose—other, that is, than a few who were stumbling along in his general direction. They looked sick, frankly. Deathly ill or, more honestly, like the walking dead. He couldn’t help but think of all the damned zombie movies he’d seen over the years, and the throb from his arm hurt all the more.
That was just insanity, though. A fantastical nightmare, nothing more.
In the real world, the dead didn’t rise. In the real world, zombies
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