Read Online Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed by Shawn Chesser - Free Book Online Page B

said.
    “Daymon, Wilson, and Foley are going up against Duncan,
Tran, Jamie, and Taryn.”
    Watching the snow intensify outside the truck’s windows,
Cade suddenly caught on. “Oh … a snowball fight. Who’s winning?”
    “Believe it or not, the Old Man’s squad is taking it to
Daymon’s crew. Don’t know how he does it, but Tran melts in and out of the tree
line like a little ninja.”
    “Jamie’s no slouch, herself.”
    “Copy that,” Seth said. “Wouldn’t want her sneaking up on
me”—he went silent for a long beat—“unless, of course, Lev was out of
the picture.”
    Detecting a trace of humor in Seth’s voice, Cade said,
jokingly, “Easy, cowboy.”
    Seth laughed. “You know I wouldn’t wish ill will on him.”
    “Roger that,” Cade answered back. “I’ll see you in a few.”
He consulted his Suunto and noted the time. Ten after ten. He put the truck
into as tight a U-turn as the big 4x4 would make. Still, he had to reverse it
half a truck length before transiting the drive to Center Street where he went
left and, making new parallel tracks where the old ones had already filled in,
finally wheeled west towards the rehab place.
    ***
    Two minutes later, after using all of the shoulder to pass
by the trio of near-frozen Zs, and with his silent wingman curled up into a
ball on the passenger floor in front of the heat vent, Cade pulled to a smooth
stop a block east of Main. Gripping the wheel with both hands at twelve
o’clock, he leaned forward and rested his chin on his knuckles. He blinked his
eyes in disbelief at what he was seeing. “They’re immobilized,” he said, taking
his eyes from the herd and regarding Max. “This, my furry four-legged friend,
is a game changer.”
    ***
    A minute after seeing the phalanx of dead rooted in their
tracks, some in mid-step, many more toppled over onto their faces or sides or
backs, arms and legs twitching minutely but not fully responding to the neural
commands issued, Cade was alone outside of the truck.
    With Max nosing the passenger window and watching him, Cade
stole one last look down the sidewalk at the dead, then mounted the back steps
to the rehab place.
    The rear door was ajar and a small snowdrift had accumulated
just inside on the scuffed wood floor. Forgoing the normal routine, he entered
silently with his Glock leveled, the black cylindrical suppressor leading the
way. There was a rich odor of decay in the air that grew stronger as he crept
down the short hallway.
    From where the hall opened up to the front of the business,
the floors were covered by the kind of blue tumbling mats usually found at a
wrestling match or gymnastic event. On the right wall were a series of doors,
all hinged open. Drawers and plastic containers had been ripped from within,
their contents—paper brochures detailing therapeutic exercises, resistance
bands fashioned into different lengths, and rubber balls of all sizes and
colors—littered the floor.
    He bent to pick up an item and caught a flash of movement to
his left. He turned and saw the reflection of a Z in the floor-to-ceiling
mirror affixed to the south wall. In one fluid motion, he spun to his right and
brought the Glock on target, its tritium sights lined up with an imaginary spot
between the rotted thing’s roving eyes.
    Having a hell of a time picking its way through the clutter
near the back stairway, the Z emitted a screech that instantly sent the hair on
the back of Cade’s neck to attention. “That’s not right,” he said aloud, hoping
that all of the undead weren’t going to sound like this after the temperature
buoyed back up. He didn’t remember Nash mentioning anything about the cold’s
effect on the dead other than the fact that they didn’t ever completely die.
However, he did know that early on, after the outbreak, Sylvester Fuentes froze
some recently turned specimens solid. And when he had thawed them out,
inexplicably, within a very short time they were ambulatory again. For all