Read Online Slow Burn (Book 4): Dead Fire by Bobby Adair - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bobby Adair
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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conclusion: if the two corpses had one gun, they might very well have had another. And they’d likely have bullets stashed somewhere nearby.
I checked the nightstand—n othing there but some lubricating gels and adult toys. I avoided touching any of that as I rummaged. I went back over to the dresser and went through it drawer by drawer. Again, nothing of real value to me, though I did nick a couple pairs of socks. I held up a lacy black thong to the light coming through the back door and imagined what they would look like wrapped tightly over Steph’s hips. But one glance at the body by my feet turned my stomach and reminded me that I didn’t have time to indulge those kinds of fantasies. In the guy’s underwear drawer, I paused. The size was right, but I felt really creeped out at the thought of wearing a dead man’s skivvies. I left them. A trip to Walmart was in my future.
The closet was next , so I stepped over and slid the door to the side. The hanger rack was packed with clothes and the floor was covered with shoes, mostly women’s. The shelf above the hanger bar held a dozen boxes, and I started pulling those down one by one and checking the contents as quietly as I could; a box of photographs, keepsakes, more photos, ski goggles, gloves.
Bingo!
One of the boxes contained a cleaning kit and three smaller boxes of ammunition. I couldn’t imagine anything else of value that might be in the other boxes so I stashed the goodies in my bag, slipped the only clean pillowcase off of its pillow and headed for the hallway.
Another small bedroom proved empty, though I did take two pillowcases from the bed in there. Pillowcases , it turned out, were awfully handy to have around.
The end of the hall opened up to a living room, stylishly done , with black lacquer furniture over natural wood flooring. The front door was open, though. Splinters of wood from the mangled doorjamb lay on the floor. I was immediately back on alert and stared into the shadows, looking, listening.
It took several long moments of waiting there at the end of the hall, convincing myself that I was alone in the house, before I crossed over the creaky floor. The kitchen had a window that opened to the front of the house and I leaned over the sink to get a good look out—no dangers, nothing of immediate interest. There was movement just down and across the street. Several Whites were at the side of the road, in the deep shadows under the oaks, squatting and tearing at something. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what.
I turned my attention to an open door in the wall at the end of the cupboard and was dismayed. Spilling out of it and covering the floor were packages of cereal and crackers, torn open and empty, as though wild animals had been here already. That was the pantry.
Careful to push the crunchy wrappers out of the way rather than step on them with my boots, I moved across the kitchen. It was messy. Every single box of any kind of food was ripped open. Every jar was broken. At least the canned goods were spared. That was something positive.
I started filling one of the pillowcases with cans and had it nearly half full when a loud rumble from outside startled me. I dropped the pillowcase , jumped to my feet, and pulled my weapons out, ready for a fight. In the moment it took to do that, I realized that the rumble was the ski boat’s engine.
I raced through the house, across the living room, down the hall, and over the corpse on the floor of the bedroom. I bounded out through the sliding glass door. The sound of the boat’s engine revved loudly.
“What the fuck?”
Freitag had the boat in the center of the river, throttled all the way forward as she circled, bouncing over waves, and making a noisy, tempting spectacle for every white within a mile.
Is she trying to warn me?
I looked left. I looked right. There were no Whites in the yard. None on the dock. I heard them, though. They were yelping. They were running. They
I checked the nightstand—n othing there but some lubricating gels and adult toys. I avoided touching any of that as I rummaged. I went back over to the dresser and went through it drawer by drawer. Again, nothing of real value to me, though I did nick a couple pairs of socks. I held up a lacy black thong to the light coming through the back door and imagined what they would look like wrapped tightly over Steph’s hips. But one glance at the body by my feet turned my stomach and reminded me that I didn’t have time to indulge those kinds of fantasies. In the guy’s underwear drawer, I paused. The size was right, but I felt really creeped out at the thought of wearing a dead man’s skivvies. I left them. A trip to Walmart was in my future.
The closet was next , so I stepped over and slid the door to the side. The hanger rack was packed with clothes and the floor was covered with shoes, mostly women’s. The shelf above the hanger bar held a dozen boxes, and I started pulling those down one by one and checking the contents as quietly as I could; a box of photographs, keepsakes, more photos, ski goggles, gloves.
Bingo!
One of the boxes contained a cleaning kit and three smaller boxes of ammunition. I couldn’t imagine anything else of value that might be in the other boxes so I stashed the goodies in my bag, slipped the only clean pillowcase off of its pillow and headed for the hallway.
Another small bedroom proved empty, though I did take two pillowcases from the bed in there. Pillowcases , it turned out, were awfully handy to have around.
The end of the hall opened up to a living room, stylishly done , with black lacquer furniture over natural wood flooring. The front door was open, though. Splinters of wood from the mangled doorjamb lay on the floor. I was immediately back on alert and stared into the shadows, looking, listening.
It took several long moments of waiting there at the end of the hall, convincing myself that I was alone in the house, before I crossed over the creaky floor. The kitchen had a window that opened to the front of the house and I leaned over the sink to get a good look out—no dangers, nothing of immediate interest. There was movement just down and across the street. Several Whites were at the side of the road, in the deep shadows under the oaks, squatting and tearing at something. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what.
I turned my attention to an open door in the wall at the end of the cupboard and was dismayed. Spilling out of it and covering the floor were packages of cereal and crackers, torn open and empty, as though wild animals had been here already. That was the pantry.
Careful to push the crunchy wrappers out of the way rather than step on them with my boots, I moved across the kitchen. It was messy. Every single box of any kind of food was ripped open. Every jar was broken. At least the canned goods were spared. That was something positive.
I started filling one of the pillowcases with cans and had it nearly half full when a loud rumble from outside startled me. I dropped the pillowcase , jumped to my feet, and pulled my weapons out, ready for a fight. In the moment it took to do that, I realized that the rumble was the ski boat’s engine.
I raced through the house, across the living room, down the hall, and over the corpse on the floor of the bedroom. I bounded out through the sliding glass door. The sound of the boat’s engine revved loudly.
“What the fuck?”
Freitag had the boat in the center of the river, throttled all the way forward as she circled, bouncing over waves, and making a noisy, tempting spectacle for every white within a mile.
Is she trying to warn me?
I looked left. I looked right. There were no Whites in the yard. None on the dock. I heard them, though. They were yelping. They were running. They
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