Z-Risen (Book 3): Poisoned Earth Read Free Page A

of blood and flesh flew. Joel moved out of the way of the little projectiles.
    “You’re giving shaking hands a new meaning, man."
    “I hate this fucking place.”
    “Your ability to state the obvious is a real gift, Creed.” Joel smacked my shoulder, lifted his assault rifle and moved toward the back of the store. I grabbed the remains of the arm and pulled it free, and left it next to the Z's battered body.
    More movement in the rear of the store meant that my little break was over.
    Joel held up a hand to motion me to stay put. I did just that, trusting that he was confident enough to take on whatever was creeping around. From the soft scraping, I hoped it was just a torso looking for a meal.
    A few weeks ago that shit used to get to me. Seeing bodies or halves of bodies still crawling around used to freak me out so bad I wouldn't sleep for days. Now it was just another sun-up in Undead Central US of A. The Zs had lost their souls or whatever made them thinking and reasoning beings, leaving them as brainless meat bags capable of little more than piss-hate coupled with an appetite for human flesh.
    I've learned, thanks to the walking Marine hard-on named Sergeant Kelly, to be more aware of my surroundings. Don't let the above Z attack fool you. I'm a lean (because I haven't had a proper meal in days), mean (because I haven't had a proper meal in days), killing machine (you get the goddamn picture).
     
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I noticed that the little store reeked of spoiled food, rotting flesh, and blood when we sniffed around the entrance, but give a squid a break for hoping for a bag of Doritos.
    Turned out the shelves were bare and probably had been for days. Mom and Pop stores had been well-defended at the start of the damn apocalypse, but then the looters had gotten into it.
    Guys like Frank McQuinn, who just over a week ago had led his merry band of jackholes against my group and a bunch of retirees who wanted to be left to their own meandering devices. We’d hurt McQuinn and his group and they’d scattered. The quick brains of Kelly and my girl, Anna Sails, had saved us. Now she was stuck in a camper with a bullet in her arm and I was out trying to find supplies to fix her up.
    A pair of shapes slid behind a shelf. Joel motioned for me to take the other side. I moved away from him, head low, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor as I sought out anything that might make noise like an errant Funyun or potato chip. If I saw one I would likely start drooling, then it would be a struggle to stop from eating it. Was there such a thing as "the three or four week rule"?
    I met Joel’s eyes. He nodded and we swung around the shelving from opposite sides.
    My wrench was already in hand and I’d raised it, preparing to bash in at least one head, all the while hoping that Joel wouldn't shoot my ass off.
    I nearly jumped out of my skin when the little figures dashed into view.
    The kids were filthy and had to be a lot younger than Christy. A pair of boys, just little kids really, with faces covered in dirt, hair a rats-nest, clothes holed and hanging in strips. My first impulse was to swing the wrench, because they looked like Zs.
    “We ain’t like those things,” one of the kids said.
    “We’re just looking for water or food,” the other said.
    Joel blew out a breath and pointed his gun toward the floor.
    “You dudes got family?” I asked.
    “Yeah. Right outside the door,” one of them said.
    They were on the move before I could ask who was waiting for them. The kids were fast and slipped away and out the front before I could get another word in.
    “Well shit,” Joel said.
    “Hey! Come back!” I called and moved toward the door.
    I poked my head out, but they were gone. I could probably pursue them, but the little rug rats were a lot faster than me. Besides, what was I going to do when I caught up with them? More than likely they did have someone around here watching after them. Someone with a big ass gun, and a bullet