Dead America: The First Week Box Set Books 1-7 (Dead America Box Sets Book 2)

by Derek Slaton

  “Don’t worry, the prettier ones are locked away for safekeeping,” the man said, licking his lips lewdly. “We don’t want them to get loose too fast.”

  Zion growled, smashing the blunt end of his weapon into the guy’s stomach, winding him. “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “Room 2145,” the guy wheezed, doubled over and gasping for air. “Now leave me the fuck alone.”

  Zion snarled. “Not a fucking chance.” before slamming the heavy makeshift weapon down onto the bridge of his nose. The soldier convulsed violently before falling silent. “Let’s go get em.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Zion used his key to silently open the door to his old apartment, and Calvin carefully closed the door behind them. They did a quick sweep, but found nobody inside, just the mess from the earlier fight. It didn’t look like anyone had bothered to stay in here since then, and he was glad that the fuckers at least hadn’t defiled his personal space.

  They moved over to the large window. Thankfully it was already open, so they could hear everything that was going on outside without drawing attention to themselves. Calvin removed the scope from his rifle and peered out into the courtyard to get a good lay of the land.

  “What have you got?” Zion whispered.

  “Nine troops by the fire, four roaming around that I can see,” he reported, jaw clenching at the whimpering woman between two of the fire-dwellers. He couldn’t tell who she was, but it churned his guts. These bastards all had to die.

  Zion retreated to his bedroom, digging around in the back of his closet for a duffel bag. He pulled out a pair of trusty gloves, homemade out of leather with four long nails jutting out of the knuckles. He exited the bedroom as Calvin snapped his scope back onto his gun, and raised his eyebrows at the new digs.

  “What the fuck are those?” he blurted.

  Zion held up a fist. “Made these back in my enforcer days. Effective, but easy to dismantle if the cops were around.”

  “Fair enough,” Calvin replied with a nod. “So, where to first?”

  “2145,” his companion said immediately. He slung his weapon over his shoulder and cracked open the apartment door, peering through the slit to make sure they didn’t have company in the hallway. It was empty, and they crept out, quietly making their way to the corner at the end.

  Zion peeked slightly around it, seeing a guard lounging on a folding chair just outside of the door to 2145. He lazily flipped the page of a magazine, not really paying attention to his surroundings.

  Zion held up a hand, palm out, to Calvin, to motion for him to stay put. The sharpshooter nodded, watching as his companion fell into a loose crouch, silently moving forward on the balls of his feet. Seeing such a burly man move with such grace was mind blowing.

  Zion soundlessly crept up the hallway towards the guard, and was able to make it about eight feet away before he was in the guy’s periphery, causing him to leap up. The magazine hadn’t even hit the ground before his attacker reached him, a sharp uppercut tearing his jaw apart with the nails, puncturing his throat in the process.

  Calvin came around the corner just in time to see the last breath leave the gurgling man, and Zion turned to open the door to the apartment.

  There were four women huddled together on the couch, dressed only in lingerie, eyes wide and fearful. They immediately recognized Zion and Calvin, and one of them pointed to the bathroom, where the light was on and the door was ajar.

  There was an echo of a toilet flush and the sink running, and Zion stood in front of the door, waiting for it to open. When it did, it revealed a man wearing only a towel around his waist, and he froze, eyes the size of saucers at the sight of the intruder standing before him.

  Zion attacked him immediately, ferocity in his fists as he tackled the man into the room. Calvin stood with the women, the five of them collectively wincing at the sounds of screams and flesh tearing echoing in the tiled space. A few moments later, Zion calmly emerged, covered in blood. He casually flicked a hunk of skin from one of his claws, and it smacked into the wall, sliding down slowly and leaving a crimson smear on the drywall.

  One of the girls scurried to the kitchen and came back with a towel, stepping forward to wipe his face.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick.

  He took the towel and offered her a smile, careful not to touch her after everything she’d probably been through. “We’re gonna take care of this,” he promised. “You all hunker down until it’s over.” He turned to Calvin. “Can you get a good vantage point from the balcony here?”

  His wiry friend peered out of the sliding door and nodded. “Yessir.”

  “Wait five minutes,” Zion instructed. “Then shoot the soldier on the farthest to the right, and work your way back to the left. I’ll come in on that side and tear these fuckers a new one.

  One of the girls who he knew as Abby, stood up, opening the door to the apartment, and glanced down at the fallen soldier there. She wrestled the assault rifle from his cold dead fingers and stepped back inside, checking and cocking it.

  “I want to help,” she declared.

  Zion nodded. “Sure thing,” he motioned to the hallway. “I’ll take you down to one of the apartments flanking the courtyard.”

  Abby put a hand on her hip, resting the gun on her shoulder, not even fazed by her mostly-nakedness. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Zion stayed low to the ground, pressed up against the far wall of the building, waiting for the firefight to start. He leaned his bat-sword against the wall and flexed his knuckles, readying his gloves.

  Calvin shot first, taking out one of the soldiers on the far side. This spurred a flurry of action, Abby firing from the other end of the building. Somebody had the foresight to snuff out the fire, plunging the courtyard into moonlight and obstructing the view of the shooters. It didn’t take them long to figure out where to fire back at, and once their attention was drawn, Zion leapt from the shadows.

  He stabbed his claws into the back of one guy’s throat, tearing up and bringing his vocal chords up into his gurgling mouth. Zion put his foot into the guy’s back, kicking the corpse off of his hand. He leapt up off of the guy’s back, landing on a bench and springing off into the air, swinging the bat-sword on the way down.

  He caught a soldier in the jaw, and the guy staggered backwards in shock, grunting, but raised his gun instinctively. Zion kicked up, catching the barrel with his boot just as it fired, and jammed his weapon into the guy’s stomach. He doubled over and received a swift knee to the nose, his attacker reveling in the sound of cartilage shattering against his kneecap.

  A nearby soldier cried out in anger at the sight of his bleeding comrade, and barreled forwards. Zion clotheslined him with the bat-sword and leapt backwards to avoid the blind swinging of the broken-nosed soldier. He jabbed forward, catching the barrel of a gun with his claws and then shoved forward, pinning the guy’s arms into his chest by stabbing him. The soldier screamed in pain as his wrists were pierced into his chest with the blades and Zion swung his body around as a shield.

  The soldier he’d clotheslined leapt to his feet and fired, peppering his friend with bullets, and Zion shoved forward, using the sufficiently bloody body as a battering ram into the shooter. The soldier staggered backwards and hit the ground hard, and only then did Zion remove his claws, splattering blood everywhere. He took up the bat-sword once again and brought it down hard, caving the two heads together into a mushy pulp that made both indistinguishable to one another.

  He quickly rolled to the side to avoid a chair being flung in anger, and barreled into the back of an unaware soldier. His opponent went chest-first into the still-hot embers of the fire, and tried to push himself back up as his clothes began to smoke. Zion put his full weight into his knees on the guy’s back, grinning maniacally as his victim screamed, his shirt catching on fire and his skin melting, bubbling, fusing into the pit.

  This was how Holcomb found his enemy as the gu
nfire died. He stared, jaw clenched, at a blood-soaked Zion, standing triumphantly atop the charred body of his last soldier. The clawed man raised his chin, extended a hand, and waved his primary target forward.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Holcomb raised his weapon immediately, aiming for Zion’s kneecaps, but his opponent was too fast. Zion rolled to the left and swung out with the bat-sword, the bright moonlight giving the area an ethereal glow after the tungsten of the smoldering soldier wore down. The Sergeant leapt back, and jutted the butt of his gun forward, catching his opponent in the jaw.

  Zion simply laughed, spitting a stream of blood to the ground, feinting left and then dropkicking to the right, catching Holcomb’s arm. He followed that with three quick jabs of his claws, hitting nothing vital but doing enough damage to cause the Sergeant to lose his weapon. He gave Holcomb a mighty kick in the chest, sending him back onto his ass in the grass.

  “How the fuck are you still alive?!” the Sergeant wheezed through his pain.

  Zion brought his weapon down hard on his victim’s ankle, the shattering of bone drowned out by the bloodcurdling scream from the bastard’s mouth. “I told you, I wasn’t done with this life yet,” he said. “You fucked with the wrong people.”

  “Fuck you…” Holcomb groaned between ragged breaths, holding his battered leg. “You’re making a big fucking mistake…”

  Zion barked a laugh. “No, it’s you that made the mistake.” He sneered. “You left me alive.” He jabbed his weapon into the bastard’s gut, winding him once again. Civilians walked out of the shadows, fearful relief on their faces at the sight of their returning savior and the bodies of their captors littering the ground.

  “At least make it quick,” Holcomb moaned.

  “No, but thank you for asking,” Zion replied, as brightly as if he were declining an extra helping of ice cream. “Calvin, you still up there?” he called up to the balcony.

  “Down here now,” his wiry companion said from the front steps of the building, jogging down. He had his rifle in his hands, and pointed it at Holcomb as he approached, keeping his eye on the Sergeant.

  Zion rubbed his chin. “Do you still have that spool of chain with your greenhouse supplies?” he asked, and his comrade nodded. “Jeff, head on over to the supply area and grab that for me will ya,” Zion instructed a nearby dweller, and the man scurried off to complete his instructions.

  Holcomb hissed as his would-be executioner leaned forward, pressing his foot down on his busted one. He leaned his elbow on his knee, his blood-spattered body looking like a slasher film crossed with an after-school special.

  “I t-took this place, fair and square,” the Sergeant stammered petulantly.

  Zion raised an eyebrow. “Fair and square? There weren’t nothin’ fair about it,” he snapped. “You fuckers snuck in at night and surprise attacked us, beating and raping innocent people.” He extended his hand to Jeff, who had returned with a length of chain clinking in his hands. “Now we’re takin’ it back. Fair and fuckin’ square.”

  He leaned over and wrapped the chain around his prisoner’s neck, tightening it before securing the links together. Holcomb let go of his leg to grasp at the metal now tight around his throat, eyes widening in terror.

  “Get up, cocksucker,” Zion demanded, straightening up to his full height. “We’re takin’ a walk.” He jerked on the chain as if to accentuate his point.

  The Sergeant cried out as he fell forward onto his hands. “I can’t fucking walk, you broke my ankle!”

  “Guess I’m draggin’ you, then,” Zion replied with a wistful sigh, as if this were a great inconvenience to him. He jerked on the chain again, reveling in the strangled gag that came from Holcomb as he did so.

  The Sergeant scrambled to get to his one good leg, not wanting to be dragged by the neck, and hobbled after Zion as best he could. Calvin followed, rifle still trained on him, and the apartment dwellers made a path for the procession as the trio headed inside.

  Zion turned to address them as he got to the front doors. “You all stay right here in the courtyard,” he said, “and you won’t miss a second of what’s going to happen to the good Sergeant.” He reached over and patted Holcomb’s head like a child.

  His prisoner scowled, but there was fear in his eyes, and Zion relished it. He led the man inside, where four women stood in a line, dressed in a mishmash of clothes. The last one was Abby, and she stood with her assault rifle, still dressed only in her lingerie.

  She lashed out and grabbed Holcomb’s crotch, squeezing and twisting as he squealed like a pig and fell to his knees. She let go of him and looked him dead in the eye.

  “Your dick was so small I couldn’t even feel it,” she said, voice low.

  Calvin barked a laugh. “Well, that explains a fuck of a lot.”

  Zion gave the chain a yank and Holcomb whimpered, leaning against the wall for support. His arms hung limply at his sides, not even sure where on his body hurt the most anymore, and between Calvin continually jabbing him in the ass with his rifle and Zion half-choking him with the chain, he didn’t know how he even made it up the stairs.

  When they exited the roof access, Holcomb’s stomach sank.

  “Don’t,” he pleaded, but it came out as a strangled gasp, as Zion dragged him across the roof to the front of the building.

  The new leader of the complex was officially out of fucks to give, and he grabbed the back of the Sergeant’s collar, holding him up to look out over the expectant faces of the civilians he’d tortured. Calvin secured the loose end of the chain around a nearby beam.

  “This is what happens to those that cross us!” Zion bellowed, and slashed his claws across Holcomb’s stomach, kicking him off of the edge of the roof.

  The Sergeant didn’t even have time to scream before he hit the end of the chain, the momentum sending his guts spewing through the hole in his stomach. His neck didn’t quite break, leaving him to sputter until he fell still, swaying gently back and forth, innards dripdripdripping on the asphalt below.

  Zion spread his bloody hands. “This is what happens,” he said loudly, over the heads of his new flock. “Brent is dead, because he was fucking stupid. He put us in this position with his stupidity, and that stupidity ended his life. It ended Jerry and Cory’s lives. Tom’s too. It made the rest of our lives a hell of a lot harder than they needed to be.

  “I keep getting asked if the rumors are true about me.” He paused for effect. “I think it’s fuckin’ clear that yes, they are. And guess who’s skills saved your asses, protected you? Mine. So going forward, I’m in fuckin’ charge. And you won’t be getting tortured and killed on my watch. Because I’ll torture and kill anyone who fuckin’ tries.

  “Monique is at a settlement in the city, and we met with a few very nice groups of people who were integral to our survival in coming back here to save our home. We’re going to connect with these people, trade with them, form relationships so that we can be strong together. That being said… I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I won’t put your lives in danger with lack of intelligence nor blindness to the truth.

  “But I’m not going to hold you here and bend you to my will. You have a choice.” He gripped the cement ledge and leaned forward, jaw set. “What do you say?”

  The roar was thunderous for such a small group of people. The relieved citizens, cheering for their new leader that had come back to save them from their fate. Calvin stepped up and clapped his comrade on the back.

  Zion nodded at him, and then raised a blood covered clawed fist to his subjects below.

  END

  STATE OF THE UNION

  DEAD AMERICA: THE FIRST WEEK EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Day Zero +7

  John Teeter and General Adams hovered over a desk, sifting through a veritable mountain of paperwork. There were maps, diagrams, and more information than they felt a single human could ever hope to digest. They were exhausted, but determined, and knew they had a job to do.

>   They were quietly studying, attempting to continue to comprehend information in their tired minds, when the General’s lead researcher, Whitney Hill, entered with another stack of papers.

  “Here are the latest east coast reports,” she said as she set the stack down on the desk. She was a fiery redhead with a no-nonsense attitude, and it showed with her crisp casual business suit even in the apocalypse.

  John scrubbed his hands down his tired face. “I thought we already had the east coast reports?”

  “Those were state by state reports,” Adams replied. “Given that the invisible lines on a map don’t really matter anymore, I had Whitney combine it into a regional report.”

  “And to clarify,” she put in, “when I say east coast, I mean everything east of the Mississippi River. I’m preparing two more reports one for the west coast which is everything west of the Rockies, and central is everything in between.”

  John groaned. “Son of a bitch.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through clenched teeth. “Okay, well, I suppose going forward this will be easier. Although without reading a single page, I’m going to assume that the situation is still fucked?”

  The redhead nodded gravely. “Six ways from Sunday, John. Six ways from Sunday.”

  “How is your research team holding up?” Adams asked.

  She shrugged. “About as good as can be expected,” she replied. “Most of them have lost contact with their families, and they’re doing their best to handle it. A couple of them have military spouses so they’ve gotten word that they’ve been evacuated to the sea. That’s the closest thing we have to good news.”

  “I’m guessing that’s a pretty common theme throughout the entirety of the bunker,” John piped up.

  Whitney nodded. “Unfortunately it is.”

  The phone on the desk beeped, and John smacked it haphazardly to trigger the speakerphone. “Yes, can we help you?”