Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

by Joe McKinney

  I turn to Bits. “Go get Ana. Tell her to come to the gate.”

  She nods, her eyes wide, and takes off for the garden. I continue down the driveway, where the trees are dropping their leaves; shades of orange, yellow and red litter the road. My feet slap the ground, and I can hear my breath. I haven’t run like this since before we got here. I was running for my life then, but now I’m running with hope.

  I race past the second gate and wave to Maureen. I come around a bend, and there he is. He walks with Dan, who’s probably telling him about the farm. I stop, panting, as he looks up. His shirt is dirty and creased, his hair flops in his eyes and his jeans are more brown than blue. A pistol sits on his hip, a rifle on his shoulder and a machete hangs from the other hip. Rambo, indeed.

  “Peter!” I yell, and run to him.

  His teeth are white against his smudged face when he smiles. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him so happy. That’s not true, I do: In those pictures of him as a kid. He’s a dead ringer for that kid now, minus the freckles.

  I almost knock him down when I reach him. His pack thuds to the ground as he hugs me. I can’t believe it’s him. It’s Peter, who was dead; we all knew he was. I remember his face when we pulled away, how for an instant he’d looked happy, and I hug him tighter. I don’t realize I’m crying until I try to speak. “How?” I croak, but I can’t say any more than that.

  “There were people in the building. Upstairs. They dropped down one of those ladders you hook to the window.”

  That curtain in the window. It wasn’t just the breeze. I shake my head at his luck, our luck, and cry harder.

  Peter’s eyes gleam. “When’d you turn into such a crybaby? Last time I saw you—crying. Here we are again—crying.”

  I can’t stop my tears, but there’s no way I can let him get away with that. “Must’ve been the same time you found a sense of humor.”

  He laughs. “That’s my girl.”

  Then, finally, the tears stop, and I beam at him. “Not anymore. Your girl is up in the gardens, on her way down. We’re all here. We all made it because of you.”

  I know he was afraid to ask, and the final bit of worry leaves his face. I want to tell him about how we got here, about Nelly, how Ana helped save him. But there’s time for that. Time. That’s something we don’t take for granted anymore.

  Pure joy bubbles up, and I see it in his face, too. He laughs and spins me around and around like we’re ballroom dancing but stops short as Bits and Ana come around the bend. Bits flies into his arms with a scream of joy and wraps her appendages around him like an octopus.

  He kisses her on the nose and inspects her face. “Bits, you got so many more freckles! I see one named Morris right there.”

  Bits’s smile is blinding, and her tomato-stained hands hold on tight. “Peter, I missed you so much!”

  Peter hugs her close. “I missed you, too, baby girl. So, so much.”

  The rest of our group, and Adrian, have made it down the road. They hug Peter and ask a million questions at once.

  I introduce Adrian, who shakes Peter’s hand with a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad you made it here.”

  Peter flashes me that gigantic grin again. I wink back and look for Ana. She stands apart, wearing a wide-brimmed hat that keeps the sun out of her eyes in the garden. She’s always out there, when she’s not trying to rope me into some sort of exercise or finding Lexers to destroy. She chews her lip and stares at Peter, uncertainty all over her face.

  Peter whispers something in Bits’s ear. She jumps to the ground with a nod and smile. Peter makes his way to where Ana stands and stops a few steps away. Then, in a gesture that’s almost courtly, he holds out his hand.

  “You know,” he says, with the hint of a smile, “I never did get that dance.”

  Ana laughs and reaches for his hand. Her hat hits the ground when he pulls her to him and waltzes her around. Peter hasn’t forgotten the steps at all, but Ana keeps up, just like he said she would.

  “Dance party!” Bits calls out, her voice echoing through the trees.

  She takes Adrian in one hand and Nelly in the other and dances like she hears music. My dad used to grab my mom and dance her around the house, me and Eric, too. If we protested, he’d say, There’s always music playing somewhere. You just have to listen.

  I have to believe that still: that there’s music playing somewhere out there. That somewhere else people are dancing. And, as Nelly spins me around, I think I can hear the faintest tinkle coming from far off. Penny and I link arms to skip in a circle and then cry with laughter when Nelly and Adrian copy us. Bits has roped Dan into the party, and he swings her through his legs and throws her in the air.

  We must look ridiculous out here, dancing on a dirt road. But I don’t care because we can hear the music, and it’s getting louder. It drowns out the moans of the broken bodies that wander the world, unaware they’re destroying everything they once loved. It soothes the pain of the broken families and broken hearts we all have now.

  James lands on Penny’s feet with every step, but I can tell he hears it, too. Even John nods along. Adrian catches me and holds me close, twirling Bits to Nelly as she squeals with delight. I’m full of happiness and hopelessness at the same time, laughing and crying at once. I don’t even know which tear is for what. Adrian smiles and brushes them with his thumb.

  The hopelessness begins to recede. I mourn for the way the world was, but I have faith it will go on. When I was a kid and promised to love my parents until the end of the world and after, it was meant to be silly. It was impossible. When the world was over, it was over. But it turns out that’s not true. We may lose this after all; humans may become a mere blip on the radar screen of history.

  But I’m not so sure about that, because the world has already ended, and we’re still here.

  About the Author

  Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, Sarah Lyons Fleming now lives in Oregon with her family and, in her opinion, not nearly enough supplies for the zombie apocalypse. But she’s working on it.

  Find more books at www.SarahLyonsFleming.com

  So Long, Lollipops (Peter’s journey)

  And After (Book 2) May 2014

  All the Stars in the Sky (Book 3) Winter 2015

  Sign up for information on future releases: http://eepurl.com/FZhVz

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing a book is exciting, difficult, frustrating and a whole lot of fun. And when you finally have something to show, your brain makes you second guess every word you’ve put down on the page (or at least mine does). Thankfully, I had people who encouraged me and told me I did have a good story to tell and a decent way of telling it:

  My mom, Linda Isaacs, who cheerfully read, loved and critiqued every draft. Well, except that first draft, which no one but me and my computer will ever see. She bugged me about when the next one would be ready, and said the story never grew boring. Hard to believe, but she sounded sincere, even if she is my mom.

  My dad, Bill Lyons, who read and re-read and told me how awesome I am (I think he might be biased, though). I might never be the crazy human that I am had he not camped with us in a lean-to for a month, or handed me Malevil the summer going into fifth grade.

  Thanks to my early readers:

  Rachel Greer, my first non-family reader, who gave me tons of encouragement in a long email I must have read ten times.

  Jamie Arest McReynolds, who sat at her computer and read it in three days, ignoring children and everything else, and then told me what she loved and what could be changed. Jamie’s husband, Shawn, a guy I hope I get to meet before our post-zombie apocalypse meet up, gave great mechanical advice. A bucket and a screwdriver, duh!

  Allie Birchler and Danielle Gustafson, whose advice on a few key parts made the book all the better. Paulette Letson, my mother-in-law, who read and added her voice to the ones who loved it. Larry “Big La” Isaacs, my step-dad and all around good guy.

  Will Fleming,
the King of Grammar (a.k.a. my husband). His observations, suggestions and grammatical corrections are always thoughtful, honest and astute. Believe me, if you find a grammatical or stylistic error the fault is all mine. And, as someone who knows writing, his encouragement and kind words made me believe that maybe I really did have something here. Thank you, Ruggles! (It deserves more exclamation points, but I know better). I don’t think it’s possible to express how much I value your opinion and advice.

  And to Sadie and Silas, the children who would only nap with their feet in Mama’s lap. If I hadn’t been trapped under y’all for all those years I might never have decided to see if I could write a book. So, thanks, you goobers. But sleeping through the night would be cool. Just sayin’.

  The Zombie Wilson Diaries

  Timothy W Long

  Copyright © 2013 by:

  Timothy W. Long

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Cover Logo and Design: J.M. Martin | Nine Worlds Media

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  Dedication

  For Victoria and Nicholas, the ones who make me laugh.

  Day 3

  Screw You, Paradise

  Hi, Diary! I should have started this when I got to the resort, but I was too busy working and drinking margaritas. They went down like heaven in the heat. Not just heat but humidity. The minute I stepped off the plane, I was soaked to the bone. I have been in showers that didn’t leave me this wet.

  So let me recap.

  * Day 1. Arrived in paradise.

  * Day 2. Crashed into paradise.

  Christ. Every muscle in my body hurts. I woke up soaked and in pain. The sun was a blast of hell that ripped the skin right off my body. I can’t believe what has happened to me the last few days. I mean, this was supposed to be a simple job in a vacation wonderland. All I had to do was look over a resort and make sure they weren’t skimming money.

  Instead my plane crashed and the ocean puked me up on a deserted island.

  My old Casio watch died in the water, so I pried the bottom off and inspected it. No water in there, but it was still dead as a doornail. I tied it to a branch and walked away. No sense in keeping the stupid thing, so I used it as a Christmas ornament for some lucky savage.

  The trees grew tall and had big old palm-looking leaves on them like you see in pictures of the islands. The islands ... where the hell did I think I was? Freaking Disneyland? Of course I had washed up on an island.

  About twenty feet away sat a beautiful white beach. I found my cushion from the crash and carried it to an area that looked like a good place to sleep. The trees closed in like a little room and then opened into a space about ten feet square. There was a lot of dead vegetation, but I pulled some of it aside and found sand underneath.

  I thought about collecting some palm leaves to make a bed.

  I wandered along the beach and marveled at the beautiful location. The crystal-clear water, the warm sand, the tolerable humidity, and the fact that I was still alive. I had to sit down and take a few breaths. Said a brief prayer to God, if he was listening to me way out in the middle of nowhere. I lay back on the warm sand, closed my eyes for a minute and inhaled the humidity.

  It was exhausting. I felt like I was in a sauna. I sure hope I can find help, assuming there are others around. This can’t be a deserted island. Is there really such a thing?

  I got up, walked to the water, stared at it and stared at it some more. I studied the horizon for a while, watched the waves roll in from far away. They crashed onto the beach, then the water rolled back out. Repeat. It was so natural that I almost expected to see a surfer riding a wave. Hang loose, dude, and bring back some help when you surf to Hawaii.

  Where did I come up on the shore last night? The waves had washed away all signs of my tracks.

  Hunger gnawed at my stomach again, and I realized for the first time that I had nothing to eat. I knew from watching documentaries that I had to find water before anything else. If I didn’t have water, I would die. A body can supposedly go a long time without food, but not the wet stuff. I didn’t want to put that to the test. No thank you.

  I studied the palm trees but didn’t see any fruit or cups of soup hanging from them. Walked along the edge of the woods until I saw a small stream of water, and tasted it with a cautious tongue. It was warm but clear, so I took a few more sips. The flow was just a tiny trickle, and I kept getting silty stuff in my mouth, so I followed it to a pool.

  A sheet of water flowed down from the side of a mountain, forming a small waterfall before hitting a curved cliff about ten feet high. Then it filled the pool before extending in four or five directions.

  I drank my fill and decided it was time to find some food. A little on-the-job training was in order if I was going to become a survivalist. I had no idea how to hunt down chow, but how hard could it be? People have been doing it for thousands of years.

  I set out for the beach and scanned the area for some small animals or something else to eat. I looked for crabs but didn’t come across any. I then searched for wild animals in the bushes. Nothing. Probably wild boar in the woods. Not sure how to catch them, but I thought a spear might work.

  I wandered along the shore and found a stick that was relatively straight. I was lucky enough to have a Swiss army knife on me. It had a blade, scissors and a file. I started cutting at the tip, but the wood was soft from being in the water. I strolled along the shoreline and looked for a drier stick.

  That’s when I saw a shape on the ground.

  I rushed to the body with a gasp. Another survivor. I hoped it was a survivor and not a corpse. When I reached the form, I saw that it was a woman. She was lying curled up in a ball next to some kind of flower. It had little blue berries hanging near a brightly colored center. Its long leaves curled upward and had serrated edges. It was pretty in a vicious way, like a tulip made for killing small animals.

  I turned her over with a thump. Her mouth was full of the little berries AND foam AND blood AND, I think, seawater. It was so gross! She gagged around the mess, so I flipped her back over like my own personal flapjack and hit her back a few times. Figured the berries were just stuck in her throat. She choked them out in a ball of goo that was none too pleasant. But then she turned her head and tried to bite me! What the hell? Why was this chick trying to eat me when all I wanted to do was help?

  I jerked back quickly and shot her my best “Seriously?” look.

  “You okay?” I asked her over and over, but she didn’t answer. In fact, she didn’t move.

  I grabbed her around the waist from behind and lifted her up off the ground, then gave her the Heimlich maneuver. I tried to be polite and not feel her boobs through the silky shirt she was wearing, but they were kind of in the way. Another wad of goo flew out of her mouth.

  I let go, and she stayed on her feet with her head bowed down. The weirdest thing? She was ice cold! Now how in the world did she get that way in this tropical wonderland? It had to be in the high nineties. I felt like the sun was going to beat me into the ground if I stayed out in it much longer. If she had a stash of ice, I wanted some of it.

  I backed away, and she slowly turned toward me. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, and she snarled. I took her wrist, felt for a pulse but didn’t find one. She staggered toward me, so I sidestepped and moved around her. Then I touched her neck and managed to leave my finger there for a couple of seconds before her head turned and she tried to bite me again.

  What the hell was wrong with this chick?

  “Hold on. Jeez, I’m not going to feel you up!”

  She didn’t seem to hear me. She kept snapping her teeth like she hadn’t had a bite to eat in days. I was starving, too, but I didn’t try to take a bite out of her!

  I held her back, my hand on her chest, and tried not to touch her
breasts, but hey, things happen, right, Diary? In all honesty, I wasn’t looking to cop a feel, I just wanted to stop her from trying to bite me. That’s when I noticed something scary.

  She had no heartbeat.

  We did a weird dance as she tried to bite me and I tried to see if she was alive. I backed off and rubbed my hands on my shirt. She came toward me one slow step at a time, but I kept backing up. I almost fell down as my heels struck a rock in the sand.

  Then it hit me. I remembered this girl from the plane. She was with some big guy, and she was wearing a tiny skirt that flashed her legs and a shirt that showed off her boobs. I looked at her matted blond hair and blue eyes—make that “blue eye,” since the other was white and oversized like a sponge trapped in water.

  Her skin should have been pink, or maybe white from being in the water and perhaps catching a chill. But it wasn’t. It was gray. Putrid gray, like the gray of something that isn’t fucking alive. Oh Jesus, Diary, I was about ready to freak the hell out. I wanted to run away from her and find some help or a gun or something.

  She staggered toward me like she was drunk, and for half a second I thought maybe that was the whole problem. She got boozed up on the plane, and now she was recovering from spending all night in the ocean. Sure, that explained the lack of a pulse, dead puffy eyes and gray skin.

  She had the worst hangover ever.

  I couldn’t really process what was happening, so I waked away in a daze to find the closest thing I have to a home. My half-deflated cushion from the plane. Hello, home sweet home. You certainly are pathetic.