Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  Satisfied that Bob and I were the only two organisms left in the station, I gazed down at the reanimated corpse before my feet. With all the blood and goo staining the ranger’s head, I hadn’t realized his brain was still intact.

  Of course, it fucking is!

  Now as voracious as the zombified scouts that had killed him, Bob lifted what remained of his left arm in a desperate attempt to grab me. His exposed jaws slowly opened and closed, his teeth clacking rhythmically. It reminded me of Azazel whenever she tried to slow-bite Clare’s arms, legs, and butt—only Bob’s efforts were far less cute.

  Though he’d lost both of his hands and much of his legs to the little bastards, he still managed to roll over and drag himself toward me. With every inch, he continued to snap his jaws in a constant staccato. A gruesome and disturbing scene.

  As I retreated toward the office doorway, I aimed the Glock at the former ranger’s skull. But before I pulled the trigger, I realized a loud-ass gunshot could make my escape less probable. Lowering the gun, I shifted my gaze around the station—in search of a quieter method of finishing Bob off. My eyes settled on the solid base of the water cooler, which had toppled over a few feet from where I stood.

  “Sorry, Bob,” I muttered, picking up the heavy dispenser and positioning it over his balding head.

  Then, with as much force as I could muster, I brought the full weight of the cooler down onto his skull. Yes, it made a resounding thud upon impact, though not as noticeable as a gunshot. Yes, it was the grossest sight I’d ever witnessed, though doubtlessly not the last. And yes, I started dry-heaving when Bob’s brain matter squirted onto my shoes. But seeing his still frame quickly snapped me out of it.

  I pivoted Bob’s waist just enough to unhook the keys, then stepped carefully over his body. With extreme caution, I peered through the giant hole that Casey had created during the daring rescue with his precious battle wagon—a vehicle that I trusted could no longer make the long journey to northern Michigan. After a few seconds, I emerged into the moonlight.

  At the bottom of the low hill that elevated the station, I paused to scan the clearing. A handful of teenage zombies lingered, dispersed several yards apart from one another. Luckily, none of them had spotted me yet, so I quickly made for the ranger’s SUV.

  In a classic horror-movie mishap that usually elicited a snarky comment from me or Clare, I fumbled with the keys and dropped them on the ground before finding the right one.

  “Shit.”

  Afraid the nearby zombies had heard my muttered curse, I unlocked the driver’s-side door, climbed behind the wheel, and sealed myself inside.

  Unfortunately, three of the roving zombies had noticed me and lumbered in my direction. Since I’d observed plenty of speedy creatures over the previous few days, I assumed these ones were simply as lazy and shiftless as they’d been prior to the spread of a world-ending infection. Typical of the current generation, they didn’t believe in laboring for their food.

  I put my foot on the brake pedal, inserted the ignition key, and turned it forward. But nothing happened. Ignoring the moaning zombies closing in on me, I turned the key a few more times.

  Same result. A dead engine—and an extremely fucked Joseph Daniels.

  “Come on,” I shouted, shaking the steering wheel in frustration. “Can this shit get any more cliché?”

  Chapter

  15

  “Well, I wouldn’t argue that it wasn’t a no-holds-barred, adrenaline-fueled thrill ride. But there is no way you can perpetrate that amount of carnage and mayhem and not incur a considerable amount of paperwork.” – Nicholas Angel, Hot Fuzz (2007)

  As the surrounding zombies edged closer, I realized why the SUV wouldn’t start. In the idiotic ranger’s haste to push us inside the station, he’d inadvertently left his headlights on. Normally, they’d have gone off by now, but he must’ve switched them to manual when he’d parked near our campsite.

  “Fucking brilliant.”

  I couldn’t possibly lug all the guns back to camp on my own—or frankly outrun the curious zombies encircling me. In the past few minutes, the total number of undead had risen from four to nine, which included the lazy teenagers plus two adults and three kids that had wandered out of the darkened woods and into the moonlit clearing. Any one of them could ensure a gruesome end, and naturally, all were headed in my direction.

  Quickly, I hopped out of the car. The awkward adolescents and sluggish teenagers were still fifty yards away, but the two adults would soon pose a problem. My only option? To grab as many guns as I could reasonably carry and leave the rest behind.

  Before popping the trunk, I scanned the area once more. My roving gaze settled on the ranger’s golf cart. Without hesitation, I darted toward it, spotted a key resting in the ignition slot, and promptly turned it. Unlike the SUV, the cart seemed to have a full charge.

  To be fair, I wouldn’t classify the open-air two-seater as a standard golf cart. Rather, it was a hybrid between a golf cart and a rugged ATV—complete with seatbelts, headlights, windshield wipers, a padded roll cage, large all-terrain tires, and a spacious cargo bed at the rear—ideal for hauling a shitload of unwieldy weapons. Unfortunately, electric batteries powered this one, not gasoline, so it wouldn’t exactly be the fastest ride.

  Oh, well, better than having to walk through a sea of the undead.

  I slid onto the seat, cranked the wheel, and made a beeline toward the SUV. After parking alongside the rear end, I unlocked the ranger’s trunk and grabbed an armful of guns, but before I could deposit my initial load, the first zombie finally reached me. While the kids and teenagers had yet to cover the distance between us, the two adults had certainly picked up speed. Fortunately, I spotted them in my peripheral vision.

  I whirled around just in time to duck beneath the swiping arm of a tall, clean-shaven, uniformed man in his early thirties. As I retreated a couple of steps, I noticed a gaping wound in place of his left shoulder.

  Luckily, one of the loaded rifles cradled in my arms was pointed right at the former scout leader’s head. True, I was in an awkward position for proper shooting, but I still managed to click off the safety and pull the trigger, drilling a deadly canal through the man’s rotting skull. He immediately dropped to the ground, making way for his counterpart: a woman wearing gray slacks, a dark-blue, button-up shirt, and an off-kilter green bandana around her neck—no doubt the official uniform of a Girl Scout troop leader. She might’ve seemed relatively normal had someone not gouged out her right eyeball, which presently dangled from her bloody eye socket and bounced against her cheek.

  Not a good look, lady.

  Of course, I doubted she cared about her appearance anymore. Like every other zombie I’d encountered so far, she only had one thing on her decomposing mind: satisfying her otherworldly hunger for living human flesh.

  Hastily, I dumped the first bundle of firearms onto the back of the golf cart, drew the ranger’s Glock, and shot her squarely in the forehead.

  As her body crumpled to the ground, landing beside the first corpse, I hurriedly transferred the remaining weapons into the cargo bed, secured my seatbelt, and hit the gas (so to speak) before any more campers-from-hell could surprise me. Yes, I’d taken out the two most motivated zombies near the ravaged ranger station, but a couple of reverberating gunshots would lure more of the ravenous undead. Frankly, I was already stressed about the ones I’d meet between the station and the campsite.

  Bumping across the clearing, headed toward the road, I whipped around the remaining zombies like weathered orange cones on an obstacle course.

  Well, whipped might be an overstatement. The hybrid vehicle wasn’t exactly speedy, even with my foot jamming the pedal to the floor. I figured the U.S. Forest Service had opted for a less-robust, eco-friendly electric model, so the Homochitto staff wouldn’t have to install a fuel pump at the remote station or refill gasoline cans in the nearest town. The rangers likely hadn’t required anything heavy-duty for their daily tasks.


  The trouble for me? While a normal electric golf cart (with a full charge) could reach speeds of fifteen to twenty miles per hour—maybe even more, depending on the manufacturer—the uneven terrain of southern Mississippi, coupled with the knobby tires and precariously loaded cargo bed, not to mention my fat ass, took a toll on the vehicle’s momentum. Even advancing downhill, it topped out at about ten miles per hour, but at least that proved fast enough to outpace the zombified scout troop from hell, which still lingered around the ranger station.

  Of course, the slow speed and open-air nature of the vehicle posed more of a problem along the crowded route back to our campsite. A “problem” that could easily turn fatal.

  For yours truly.

  As expected, I soon spotted a spread-out herd of uniformed zombies on the road ahead of me. Probably the same little fuckers that had tried—and, in some cases, succeeded in—breaching the ranger station. The same ones who’d followed Casey’s station wagon back to where we’d left the van.

  Luckily, the electric cart was fairly quiet—certainly no match for the zombies’ collective moans—but not so luckily, the vehicle’s bright headlights preceded my arrival. Since I didn’t have time to seek out another way back to my family, I had only one choice: to plow through the lumbering zombies as efficiently as possible. It was about to get seriously messy.

  Even with the headlights signaling my approach, I found the first bunch of lumbering scouts easy to knock off their feet. It became like a post-apoc video game. As I sideswiped the tiny monsters for maximum points, their decomposing bodies bounced into each other or smashed against tree trunks like haphazard billiard balls.

  BONUS SCORE!

  DOUBLE-SMASH!

  I have a sick mind… so sue me.

  Naturally, the desire to laugh didn’t endure. Shit just got too damn real.

  Once I’d bumped off all the stragglers, I noticed the rest of the horde grew thicker… and quicker. Not only in speed but also in smarts. Sensing the golf cart before I could knock the creatures aside, the next wave of zombies forced me to alter my tactic.

  Instead of swerving to hit them, I attempted to slalom between them. Unlike skiing around inanimate flags, however, these obstacles had muscles, momentum, and a maniacal desire for my tasty flesh. Several times, I had to use one of my handguns to deter any zombies bold enough to paw at me, grab my arms or legs, or clutch the roof supports. I even had to nail a few who’d grasped the cargo bed and ended up getting dragged behind the vehicle.

  Unfortunately, every gunshot alerted even more of the little fuckers and their former chaperones. Some only turned, mildly curious, while others scurried headlong toward the cart. A few more well-aimed gunshots, and a few less mindless carnivores blocked my route.

  Weaving between the bloody corpses and the remaining zombies, I realized I’d nearly reached the driveway leading to our campsite. Having outpaced most of the creatures on the main road, I eagerly veered toward the gravel path—and promptly came to a halt.

  Halfway down the sloping turnout stood the largest child I’d ever seen in real life—undead or otherwise. Only about four feet tall, she seemed almost as wide.

  All fat jokes aside, I couldn’t understand how she’d gotten so far ahead of the other kids. But it didn’t matter. She’d obviously been headed toward the campsite—and my peeps—when I’d halted behind her. Sensing me, she whirled around, unleashed a low growl, and bolted toward me at an incredible speed.

  Was it the momentum of so much weight that kept her going, or an innate desire to maintain the same caloric intake she’d had prior to the zombiegeddon?

  Whatever the case, she likely would’ve totaled the golf cart if we’d collided. So, sandwiched between the giant eating machine hurtling toward me and the moaning zombies behind me, I made the only move I could: I swerved off the road just past the gravel driveway.

  And promptly regretted my decision.

  Although I didn’t consider it wise to have a head-on collision with the oversized zombie child, I hadn’t anticipated the steep, rugged terrain of the slope descending toward our campsite. The gently curving driveway would’ve offered a much more pleasant descent.

  Once I’d veered onto the slope, however, it was too late to turn back. In an instant, the cart doubled in speed. Additionally, I managed to hit every thorny bush and slender tree trunk on the way down, adding several scratches and bruises to my growing collection. At least the windshield offered some protection, and the seatbelt kept me from tumbling out on the way down.

  I tried my best to steer through the untamed foliage, but it was a futile effort—like attempting to navigate a car that had plummeted into a river. Gravity did most of the work for me. I was just grateful the vehicle didn’t roll over during my cacophonous journey through the woods.

  If not for the vehicle’s headlights—and the recent gunshots—my traveling companions might’ve thought a giant zombie was crashing its way toward them. As it was, they merely stared at me as I burst noisily through the tripwire and into the campsite. Clare and Casey stood beside the wide-open rear doors of the van, their arms full of gear, their eyes wide with shock. George hovered nearby, her rifle at the ready, but fortunately, she refrained from shooting me.

  Clearly out of control, I zoomed past them and smashed into the battered station wagon with a bone-shaking thud. My thighs slammed painfully into the steering wheel, and my head smacked the windshield, worsening the ongoing ache in my skull but preventing my body from ripping through the flimsy seatbelt and launching itself into a tree.

  Every part of me hurt.

  But the crack of George’s rifle snapped me back to the painful present. Since I didn’t sense a bullet hole among my injuries, I figured she’d shot an encroaching zombie… which meant it was time to get the fuck gone.

  Chapter

  16

  “It’s amazing how quickly things can go from bad to total shitstorm.” – Columbus, Zombieland (2009)

  As I unbuckled the seatbelt, I heard footsteps thundering toward me. But I couldn’t move to greet them. My knees were jammed against the steering wheel.

  “Motherfucker,” I muttered.

  No broken bones, but both legs throbbed unmercifully.

  Casey appeared beside me, his arms empty. I assumed he and Clare had been transferring all the luggage and tools from the totaled station wagon into the step van—our only remaining ride.

  “Are you OK, Joe?”

  “I’ve been better,” I grumbled.

  Once Clare arrived, the two of them helped me extricate myself from the fucking golf cart. I was a bit shaky after the jarring collision. While George kept an eye on the perimeter of our campsite, and Clare gave me a worried once-over, Casey started lugging weapons from the cargo bed.

  “Baby, are you sure you’re alright?” Clare’s eyes still filled with concern. “Why don’t you get inside the van? I can help Casey with the guns.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I groaned, glancing toward the driveway. “Besides, we don’t have much time.” Then, remembering something I’d almost forgotten, I turned back to her. “Azazel?”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she shook her head sadly.

  “She’s probably hiding in the van.”

  She sniffled. “I don’t think so.”

  I shook off my own dismay. “OK, well, let’s not lose hope. We’ve gotta get these guns inside before those hungry little bastards arrive.”

  With a reluctant nod, she moved toward the rear of the golf cart and gathered an armful of weapons. Like her, I was giving serious consideration to abandoning our duties to search for Azazel. But we had no choice.

  I almost smacked myself for leaving the van doors wide open, but I couldn’t do anything about it now, and that pissed me off more than I could express. All the shit I’d gone through to keep my tiny tiger alive… and I ended up losing her because of a fucktard ranger.

  I swear, if that asshole wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him all over again
.

  Moans drifted from the road, and despite my sore muscles, fresh bruises, and fatherly concerns, I helped the others transfer the weapons and pack up the van. A few guns had tumbled from the golf cart on my careening ride across the campsite. I scooped up those I spotted in the moonlight, assuming more peppered the zombie-laden road and wooded hillside, but I had no intention of searching for them.

  A crash sounded near the road. My companions and I halted in midstride as we listened to the thuds, rustles, and groans headed down the same steep slope I’d just descended.

  Lifting one of the shotguns I’d plucked from the ground, I targeted the darkened trees and focused on the sounds of mayhem advancing toward us. Suddenly, I spotted the obese girl somersaulting amid the foliage. Presumably, she’d decided to trail the cart and lost her footing along the way.

  Not that her mishap had dulled her appetite any. Every time her head rolled upright, she eyed me with a hungry stare. I targeted her with my weapon, ready to shoot her, but before I pulled the trigger, she smacked against the pointy end of a broken limb, effectively impaling herself through the abdomen. Not a killing blow for a zombie, but certainly inconvenient.

  No matter how hard she struggled and grunted with disappointment, she couldn’t free herself. Even as she wriggled and flailed, she reminded me of a giant, blue-and-brown marshmallow stuck on a stick, ready for the campfire.

  Smirking, I helped Casey with the last of the guns, then glanced toward his busted pride and joy. The battle wagon spewed steam and antifreeze, and one of the back tires was completely flat.

  “Sorry about your car, kid.”

  “She served me well,” he lamented, “and died saving our asses.”