Read Online The Last: A Zombie Novel by Michael John Grist - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael John Grist
Tags: Zombie Apocalypse
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pass by four bedrooms, two for kids with the names of the inhabitants written on hanging signs.
Jemima
Janiqua
It's not a tenement then, but a single family. They must be rich. I hope they're all out. I pad down with my senses on high alert, straining for any sound. By the ground floor my heart is going crazy.
I pad over the tiled corridor toward the back yard. I open it up, onto a classy kitchen with a polished granite breakfast bar, bright plastic stools, and a full-length glass door through which I can see the moped in the yard. I start toward it, then see someone standing off to the left by the sinks, with his back to me.
"Uh," I say, involuntarily.
It's a guy in a bathrobe, with long dreads. He turns, and I see he's wearing blue pajamas beneath the open robe. His skin is a gray tan and his eyes are ice-white.
An awkward moment passes.
"I'll just," I start, perhaps intending to finish with 'let myself out,' but he doesn't give me the chance. With his robe fluttering behind him he charges.
"Shit," I mutter and try to get my dumbbell club up in the air. He hits me before I can bring it down and slams me back against the half-open door, which crashes shut with a juddery slam.
I try to bounce away but his weight pins me and his outstretched fingers claw off my hoodie, his mouth is open and for a second his cheek hits my cheek and I freak out completely, spinning a frantic elbow into the side of his head.
The force knocks him down to his knees, and I leap away and kick him in the head, the same way I'd kick out at a rat, not really wanting to touch it. I connect and his head whacks to the side but it does nothing but slow him briefly, and he keeps coming.
"Goddamn shit," I curse, because now my foot hurts and I'm penned in and all I've got is this damn metal club.
I bring it down on his shoulder, too squeamish to go for the head, and with a horrible crack his collarbone crumples in. He doesn't give a shit though, and rises to his feet smoothly, leaning in.
I drop my weight low and shove him in the breastbone as hard as I can. It's enough to send him tumbling into the bright stools at the bar. There's another crack as his skull bounces off the sharp stone edge, then there's blood pouring down his back and spreading across the floor.
My legs go weak. He's on his knees and I kick him in the chest, driving his head back into the marble again. He manages to snag my jeans leg with his hand, pulling me off balance. I bring the bar down on his forearm with all my strength. The heavy metal snaps through the bones like they were made of Graham crackers, and his arm distends like a marshmallow.
I feel like I might puke. He barely notices. He tries to use his broken arm to get to his feet and instead bends the bones back the other way against the floor. I gag as his now-useless appendage flops like a fish. He looks at it, pushes off the stub of forearm bone so hard it pierces the skin and blood starts coming out there too, and gets onto his feet.
He's like a Terminator. I kick him pathetically in the thigh and hit him again with the bar in the other shoulder. Another cracks rings out as his other collarbone snaps, and now both his arms sag uselessly at his sides. He gets to his feet with them dangling weirdly in front of him.
Shit shit shit, this is too messed up. I want to go back to my room. I notice he's wearing fluffy red slippers with faces on. It's too much. I back up frantically and he follows. His blood is everywhere now, dribbling down his neck and spilling out past the white knob of bone sticking through his forearm, puddling across the dark floor tiles.
I grab the kitchen door and plunge back through it, slamming it behind me.
The hall beyond is lit by a half-light cast through the glass by the front door. I stand with my back to the door, panting and holding tight to the handle, waiting for him to try and force it open. Of course he doesn't. He thumps and shuffles against the door like a zombie. His blood
Jemima
Janiqua
It's not a tenement then, but a single family. They must be rich. I hope they're all out. I pad down with my senses on high alert, straining for any sound. By the ground floor my heart is going crazy.
I pad over the tiled corridor toward the back yard. I open it up, onto a classy kitchen with a polished granite breakfast bar, bright plastic stools, and a full-length glass door through which I can see the moped in the yard. I start toward it, then see someone standing off to the left by the sinks, with his back to me.
"Uh," I say, involuntarily.
It's a guy in a bathrobe, with long dreads. He turns, and I see he's wearing blue pajamas beneath the open robe. His skin is a gray tan and his eyes are ice-white.
An awkward moment passes.
"I'll just," I start, perhaps intending to finish with 'let myself out,' but he doesn't give me the chance. With his robe fluttering behind him he charges.
"Shit," I mutter and try to get my dumbbell club up in the air. He hits me before I can bring it down and slams me back against the half-open door, which crashes shut with a juddery slam.
I try to bounce away but his weight pins me and his outstretched fingers claw off my hoodie, his mouth is open and for a second his cheek hits my cheek and I freak out completely, spinning a frantic elbow into the side of his head.
The force knocks him down to his knees, and I leap away and kick him in the head, the same way I'd kick out at a rat, not really wanting to touch it. I connect and his head whacks to the side but it does nothing but slow him briefly, and he keeps coming.
"Goddamn shit," I curse, because now my foot hurts and I'm penned in and all I've got is this damn metal club.
I bring it down on his shoulder, too squeamish to go for the head, and with a horrible crack his collarbone crumples in. He doesn't give a shit though, and rises to his feet smoothly, leaning in.
I drop my weight low and shove him in the breastbone as hard as I can. It's enough to send him tumbling into the bright stools at the bar. There's another crack as his skull bounces off the sharp stone edge, then there's blood pouring down his back and spreading across the floor.
My legs go weak. He's on his knees and I kick him in the chest, driving his head back into the marble again. He manages to snag my jeans leg with his hand, pulling me off balance. I bring the bar down on his forearm with all my strength. The heavy metal snaps through the bones like they were made of Graham crackers, and his arm distends like a marshmallow.
I feel like I might puke. He barely notices. He tries to use his broken arm to get to his feet and instead bends the bones back the other way against the floor. I gag as his now-useless appendage flops like a fish. He looks at it, pushes off the stub of forearm bone so hard it pierces the skin and blood starts coming out there too, and gets onto his feet.
He's like a Terminator. I kick him pathetically in the thigh and hit him again with the bar in the other shoulder. Another cracks rings out as his other collarbone snaps, and now both his arms sag uselessly at his sides. He gets to his feet with them dangling weirdly in front of him.
Shit shit shit, this is too messed up. I want to go back to my room. I notice he's wearing fluffy red slippers with faces on. It's too much. I back up frantically and he follows. His blood is everywhere now, dribbling down his neck and spilling out past the white knob of bone sticking through his forearm, puddling across the dark floor tiles.
I grab the kitchen door and plunge back through it, slamming it behind me.
The hall beyond is lit by a half-light cast through the glass by the front door. I stand with my back to the door, panting and holding tight to the handle, waiting for him to try and force it open. Of course he doesn't. He thumps and shuffles against the door like a zombie. His blood
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