Life Sentence: Two Tales of the Living Dead Read Online Free Page A

third, crawling on stubs of arms. A fourth slithered past him. They crowded into the doorway, grumbling and grunting, all glowering at Daniel. Then the first stepped aside and they rushed forward, zombie after zombie, running, lurching, dragging themselves toward him.
    Daniel ran to the door. Pounded on it. Screamed.
    “Don’t worry, sir,” Shana said. “Your procedure was a success. No matter what they do, you can’t die.”
    A click, and the speaker went silent as the zombies swarmed over him.

Last Stand
    If you had to make a last stand for the survival of your race, Monica supposed there were worse places to do it. As she gazed out over the fort walls, she could imagine fields of green and gold, corn stalks swaying in the breeze.
    How long had it been since she’d tasted corn? Monica closed her eyes and remembered August backyard barbecues, the smell of ribs and burgers on the grill, the chill of an icy beer can as Jim pressed it to her back, the sound of Lily’s laughter as she darted past, chasing the other children with water balloons.
    Monica opened her eyes and looked out at the scorched fields. She’d been the one who’d given the order to set the blaze, but there hadn’t been corn in them, not for years. Only barren fields of grass and weeds that could hide the enemy, best put to the torch.
    “Commander,” a voice said behind her.
    She turned and a pimply youth snapped his heels together and saluted. The newer ones did that sometimes, and she’d stopped trying to break them of the habit. They needed to believe they were in a proper army, with proper rules, even if they’d never worn a uniform before. It was what kept them going, let them believe they could actually win this war.
    “Hendrix just radioed,” the youth said. “He’s bringing in the latest group of prisoners.”
    Monica nodded and followed him off the ramparts. They passed two teenage girls in scout uniforms. They nodded, gazes down, and murmured polite greetings. Monica hid a smile, thinking that, once upon a time, she’d have killed to get that respect from girls their age, back when she’d stood at the front of a classroom.
    She thought about all the kids she’d taught. Wondered where they were now, how many were Others, how many were dead . . . Too many in the last category, she was sure. What would they think, seeing their chemistry teacher leading the last band of resistance fighters? Could they ever imagine it? She couldn’t imagine it herself some days.
    As she followed the youth into the fort, Gareth swung out from the shadows. He fell into step beside her, his left foot scraping the floor--a broken leg that never healed quite right.
    Before he could say a word, she lifted her hand.
    “Objection noted, Lieutenant.”
    “I didn’t say a word, Commander,” he said.
    “You don’t need to. You heard we’re bringing in a fresh lot, and you’re going to tell me--again--that we can’t handle more prisoners. The stockade is overcrowded. We’re wasting manpower guarding them. We’re wasting doctors caring for them. We should take them out into the field, kill them and leave the corpses on spikes for the Others to see.”
    “I don’t believe I’ve suggested that last part. Brilliant idea, though. I’ll send a troop to find the wood for the poles--”
    She shot him a look. He only grinned.
    “We aren’t animals, Lieutenant,” she said. “We don’t stoop to their level.”
    Of course he knew she’d say that, just as well as she knew his complaint. Gareth just liked to voice his opinion. Loudly and frequently. She’d answered only for the sake of the new recruit leading them.
    When they reached the main hall, she heard the cry: “Prisoners on the grounds!” For the newer ones, it was a warning and they scattered in every direction. Monica never tried to make them stand their ground. She understood too well where that fear came from, those years of hiding, watching, waiting to run again. She did, however, ask her