by Gillian Zane
Contents
Justice | NOLA Zombie Series Book 4
Dedication
Copyright
Synopsis
Justice by Gillian Zane
NOLA Zombie Book Four
Untitled Document
ONE | Know Stuff About Stuff
TWO | Tiny Bullshit
THREE | Drill Sergeant Baby
FOUR | Rebel Babysitter
FIVE | Amphibious Ass-Kicker
SIX | Housekeeping
SEVEN | Complicated Sucks
EIGHT | Pretty Words with No Meaning
NINE | Fuck Yeah
TEN | No Better
ELEVEN | The Asshole in Charge
TWELVE | PTSD Special
THIRTEEN | Going in Hot
FOURTEEN | Shotgun Morning
FIFTEEN | Shoot to Kill
SIXTEEN | Taking Chances
SEVENTEEN | Down Girl
EIGHTEEN | Do or Die
NINETEEN | Being Civilized
TWENTY | AWOL Kiddies
TWENTY-ONE | Empty Junk Drawers
TWENTY-TWO | Morons and Migraines
TWENTY-THREE | Flirting with Disaster
TWENTY-FOUR | Beauty Pageant Military
TWENTY FIVE | Not in front of the kids
TWENTY SIX | Monsters Among Us
TWENTY SEVEN | Blood Stains
TWENTY-EIGHT | Left to Rot
TWENTY-NINE | Sex Gods and Dust Mites
THIRTY | Somewhat Responsive
THIRTY-ONE | The Good Guy
THIRTY-TWO | I'm Up
THIRTY-THREE | Giving it Up For the Coffee
THIRTY-FOUR | Coffee and Hope
THIRTY-FIVE | Up and Running
THIRTY-SIX | The Supplicant
THIRTY-SEVEN | Prove It
THIRTY-EIGHT | Down Goes Pratt
THIRTY-NINE | Kill me, you bitch
FORTY | Baby
FORTY-ONE | In Trouble
FORTY-TWO | Giving In
FORTY-THREE | Thanks for Everything
FORTY-FOUR | Itchy
FORTY-FIVE | Go Solar
FORTY-SIX | Wash Me
FORTY-SEVEN | Spin Cycle
FORTY-EIGHT | Shattered
FORTY-NINE | You and Me
FIFTY | Really Good Sex Just Isn't Enough
FIFTY-ONE | Home Sweet Home
FIFTY-TWO | Firing Squad
FIFTY-THREE | No Better
FIFTY-FOUR | My Business
FIFTY-FIVE | Guilty
FIFTY-SIX | Hours to Days
FIFTY-SEVEN | Empty Promises
FIFTY-EIGHT | Sent in the Big Guns
FIFTY-NINE | Typical Male
SIXTY | We're all Fucked
SIXTY-ONE | Another Guard
SIXTY-TWO | Escape
SIXTY-THREE | Is this a dream?
SIXTY-FOUR | It's All Over Now
SIXTY-FIVE | More Conviction
About the Author
Sneak Peek at the Next NOLA Zombie
HONOR by Gillian Zane
Justice | NOLA Zombie Series Book 4
To my T.I. , TSGT Bradley, your hat made
a lasting impression.
Copyright
A PARAJUNKEE PUBLISHING eBOOK
JUSTICE. Copyright © 2016 by Gillian Zane. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Editing by Raw Books Editing Services
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::: created in the USA :::
Synopsis
The NOLA Zombie Series
JUSTICE by Gillian Zane | Book 4
There is unfinished business for the S-Island survivors and it centers around Lakeview. The New Orleans' neighborhood has been taken over by a sadistic group of bikers called the Southern Clan.
Hannah Klink, who everyone calls Baby no matter how many times she punches them, is training her fellow survivors to defend themselves and work as a unit. The goal is to take back the refugee base at Lakeview and put the Army back in charge. It's a daunting task as the group runs into hordes of the dead and encounters resistance when they attack. It's just another day in the life of Baby, MJ Security grunt and zombie apocalypse survivor...until she meets Rebel.
Rebel is an MC member by birth, but not by heart. By luck or bad karma he was home from college when the SHTF. Now he's forced to be a part of the club's ruthless plans for the sake of survival. The brothers know he's not one of them, but he keeps his head low and his nose clean as much as possible. Until all hell breaks loose and Rebel is faced with a choice- loyalty to the club, or follow his gut and the cute blonde that likes to order him around.
An action-packed continuation of the Amazon bestselling NOLA Zombie series. There is graphic violence, sexual encounters, bad language and a few zombies in NOLA Zombie Book Four.
Justice by Gillian Zane
ONE | Know Stuff About Stuff
I felt alive when I was killing them. It was horrendous to think this, but my only moments of clarity were when I was off base and on the hunt. The only moments when the burden of my new life wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts. When I was at the home base I felt like I couldn’t breathe, always looking over my shoulder in a perpetual game of cat and mouse. Here, the enemy was real. I could spot the enemy. I could kill the enemy. There was nothing to think about, there was only one constant.
The enemy wanted to eat me. The enemy must die.
It came for me with its mouth chomping in a macabre parody of chewing. It looked like a toddler begging to be fed. This was no toddler though; it was an adult male, overweight and dressed in the remnants of a suit. His clothing hung from him, ripped to shreds, dried blood clinging to every square inch of him. His belly was exposed, the grey skin of his large gut jiggled in the night air as he extended his arms as if to give me a hug.
Even though the suit was ripped and stained, it was obvious it was expensive. The ripped lining had designer written all over it. Before the world ended, I was in the market for my first suit, to land my first real job. This guy could have been my boss or maybe a client one day. Not anymore. Those days were long gone.
Leather was more practical than Italian wool anyway.
There were a lot of polo shirt and suit encased biters in this area of New Orleans. Lakeview was one of the most prized and over-priced areas of the city of New Orleans. Before the world ended, of course. It was now my home. Also known as the hole I crawled into.
I had a 70124 zip code, something I didn’t think would ever happen in my lifetime. A bunch of rich, workaholic snobs had lived here. They were all a bunch of dead rich snobs now, caught unaware trying to get their last bit of work done while the world went to Hell around them. They were cursed with wearing the same designer suit for eternity, or until I took them out.
This one had lost his shoe somewhere and one of his arms looked like it was about to fall off. Half of its face was chewed on, its cheek bones were exposed, viscous strips of flesh hung from its eye socket like garish decorations. Its eyes were locked on me in hunger.
It crossed my mind to let it eat me, maybe I could trip and all it would take was one bite. The brother fighting at my side, my fellow Southern Clansmen wouldn’t let me turn. He’d put a bullet in my head quicker than you could say “after-life.” It wouldn’t be that much pain, a quick bright light, and then I would be done with this place. I would be done with this
messed up world.
“Rebel, what the fuck is your problem?” Bear called from the other side of the street. He was wrestling with his own biter.
I planted my knife deep into the head of the rotting corpse in front of me and it fell to the ground at my feet.
A citizen was cleaning up the mess as we took out each biter. He was dressed in a full-body hazmat suit that we had found with the rest of the Army gear that came with our newly acquired base. He ran over to me and grabbed the biter I had killed and tried to pull it by the arm, but its arm came off, so he had to grab it by the chest. He pulled it toward the lawn by the lapels of that fancy suit. He tried to throw it onto a stack of the other dead, but the biter was too heavy. He pushed him close to the bodies as best as he could. From what I could tell, there were no other biters on their way. We were done for the night. Time to light the fire.
We had been killing biters for the last four hours. I was dressed in leather, for easy clean-up, but I was still covered in gore. The biters leaked, it was nasty. When you stabbed them, black blood burst out of them and sprayed you. They also had this bizarre tendency to liquify which also tended to splatter. Good thing I was single, I could barely stand myself.
Four hours of biter killing was a new record. We had a technique. Bear had found an old boom box, the kind that didn’t need a phone or Mp3 player to work, and we had found a CD of AC/DC. We cranked that music up and it was like calling pigs to be slaughtered. It was my idea of course, and I have to say, it was a great one. I was tired of getting surprised by the biters every time I went on patrol. They would pop up and be all grrr in your face and if you weren’t paying attention, you were pushing up daisies.
About two weeks ago I shared my idea with Senior, the president of the Southern Clan Motorcycle Club and dictator of our newly formed Apocalypse Party; he waved me off and told me to do whatever the hell I wanted. That was the best thing he had ever told me. If it wasn’t about drugs or women, he couldn’t care less. It’s why I liked being out here, away from them, away from my “brothers” and the drugs, the women, and the stink of excess. It was real out here. In there, it was akin to a bomb ready to explode and I didn’t want to be around when the timer went to zero.
“Where’s your head at, dick sucker?” Bear strode over to me. His nickname was true to form, he was fat, big and hairy, a monster of a man. He had been that way for as long as I could remember.
“He wasn’t going to get me. I was looking at him. They’re falling apart, in a year they might be skeletons. You think they’ll decompose until they’re nothing?”
“Now, that’ll be fucked up, a skeleton running after you. Is that possible?”
“I didn’t think a walking, biting corpse was possible,” I shrugged.
“No, you know what I mean, the bones, they need shit to hold them together, right? Like muscle and fat and stuff. You’re the college kid, you study that shit? Would they be able to walk around as just bones?”
College to the Southern Clan bikers meant you knew about everything. If there was a question, call in Rebel, he went to college. When I told them I didn't study that particular topic, they looked at me stupidly, like what did that matter? I went to college, I should know stuff about stuff.
“Yeah, you need muscle to keep the bones together.” I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, only opening them when I had taken a few deep breaths. I had learned this trick a long time ago, long enough to make it not so obvious that I was pissed or annoyed. I was a legacy Southern Clan member, meaning my father was a NOLA SCMC, his father before him was a founding NOLA SCMC. When I was thirteen, my dad gave me my first tattoo. It was the Southern Clan’s Confederate Flag, I had no choice. I was a man and I had to show my manliness with a tattoo, the rest of the ink would come when I got full membership and my colors. Afterwards, he got one of the club girls to take my virginity. She thought it was cute when I told her she didn’t have to, that she could lie and I would tell everyone we had sex, So she gave me head, insisted on “popping my cherry," her words, not mine, and told everyone I was the best lay she’d had in a long time. This didn't go over well with the club, though. Everyone knew she had screwed the president’s son a few days earlier, who had also just turned thirteen, her words put a target on my back and it’s never been removed. She didn’t realize what she was doing. Or at least I hoped she didn’t. It was another day in the life of a Southern Clan member.
The citizen was done with his biter stack. The dead made a neat pile of decomposed flesh that stood five feet tall. He doused the pile of corpses in lighter fluid and then threw a match on top of it. The biters went up in smoke. They burned easily for some reason and usually only left a pile of dust and a few scattered bones in their wake.
“I’m gonna bring the citizens back. I’ll relieve you in six hours,” Bear said. We were at the lookout location on one of the main drags in the neighborhood we had taken over. We had three lookout locations and Bear and I rotated shifts with one other brother for the location on Canal Boulevard. It was boring work, but we had to stay alert, you never knew what could happen in this world.
I nodded and made for the big house we used for watch. It was a raised two-story monstrosity that had housed some lawyer and his family before the biters took over. I climbed the stairs and set up shop in a second floor bedroom, the big window at the front had a good view of the street. It was going to be another long night.
I hated the monotony of being on lookout, but I hated being back at home base even more. I wanted to be out there doing something. Not sitting here waiting for that something to happen.
My mind drifted to thoughts of escape. I wanted to get on my hog and get the hell out of the area. They wouldn’t chase me down. My dad probably couldn’t care less if I lived or died. I would be on my own though and this world wasn’t a place to be on your own. Someone always had to have an eye open. There were biters everywhere and if it wasn’t biters, it was other humans. The humans were worse.
This had been my routine lately. I was stuck in a perpetual loop of thinking to leave and then talking myself into staying. I hated it here, but I was as good as dead if I went off on my own. No matter where my macabre thoughts led me earlier, I didn’t want to die. Living meant staying with the club until something better came along. Hopefully I would last until that better showed up.
TWO | Tiny Bullshit
After four boring hours of staring at the street and hoping for a random biter to give me something to do, Tiny, one of the enforcers, came tearing down the street on his hog. We had taken to only using the bikes in an emergency since they were so loud and tended to draw the biters to us in droves. We didn’t want to lead them to our base, so bikes were on lockdown. Ironic, since we were a motorcycle club. I spotted him as soon as he turned onto Canal. I could tell it was Tiny because he was the only one that wore a bright red dome, what the MC called their helmets.
I went outside to meet him. If he was driving by, he would wave me off. He didn’t drive by. He pulled up onto the lawn, but didn’t cut the engine. The big bike rumbled and the sound was reassuring, even though Tiny looked panicked.
“Senior’s bitch killed him tonight, gutted him like a pig. She took out Fatz and Parrish on the way out. You gotta return to church, man, the whole place is a shitstorm. I’m rounding everyone up.”
“Wait, what? Senior’s dead?” I asked.
“You ain’t listening, man. He’s a total rotter. We found him bled out on the floor, she didn’t even have the decency to put one through his brain. She probably wanted to take more of us out if he would have turned, the cunt, get your shit and head back. It’s crazy town over there.”
“Well, damn,” I grumbled.
If I was processing this correctly, Senior had been taken out by the girl he had recently claimed as property. From what I remembered she was new, a recent acquisition from some rednecks out of Slidell, a city to the east of New Orleans. I wasn’t allowed to hang out in the main area of the base that much, what we
called church, since I wasn’t the most popular of the brothers, but I had seen her a few times, sitting next to Senior, or dancing for the men. She was striking, I remembered that much, enough to make me do a double take. She was also young, early twenties at the most. It had made me sick to see the bruises on her face and body, most likely from Senior. If she took out Senior, things were going to get interesting, real fast. I had no love for the man. Being gutted by the girl he kept as property was almost poetic justice. But I wasn’t excited to see Junior, his son, step up to the plate as president.
Senior was a sadistic and cold man, but his son was pure evil. There was no better way to describe it. I had grown up with Junior and I was well-versed in his darkness. My father was Senior’s Sergeant at Arms, had been since I was a kid. Brandon Junior and I were the same age so we were always together, along with two other legacy kids, Jazz and Eagle. Junior and I never liked each other. Tolerated was a better way to describe our relationship. I wasn’t looking forward to Junior’s rule. I might have to put more thought into disappearing on lookout one night. I had been toying with it for a long time. There was nothing holding me back now. In fact, I might have no other choice. Death loomed before me if I went at it alone, but death was pretty much a guarantee if Junior was in charge. Tolerance as kids had led to hatred as adults. He kept himself in check because of our fathers, but there was no one to keep him in check now.