The Undead World (Book 2): The Apocalypse Survivors Read Online Free Page B

and now it sprung at Ram, who flung himself backwards firing the pistol, running a nasty groove diagonally through the thing’s face from left to right. The burning hunk of lead made a horrible gaping hole, but that didn’t stop the zombie from attacking Ram with everything in its vicious arsenal.
    Claws slashed at him and its jaws snapped crazily. Before Ram knew what was going on, the zombie had bowled into him, knocking him off his feet and only years of training saved him. He pivoted as he fell—letting the left side of his body drop back while powering with his right, effectively turning the tables and landing atop the zombie.
    This made only the barest of improvements.
    Any time a man was within arm’s reach of a zombie, it meant he was within arm’s reach of death. Ram pulled back, gathering his feet beneath him and standing in a single quick move. As he did the zombie's claws made a scritching sound as they tore down his jacketed arm; the sound drew his attention away from what really mattered. The zombie’s other hand reached out and just managed to graze the bare skin of Ram’s throat.
    The sudden burning sensation focused him quick. “Oh, no,” he whispered, touching himself gingerly and feeling suddenly vulnerable and soft…and jittery. His hands began to shake.
    In front of him, the zombie clambered to its feet and despite still toting a loaded pistol, Ram panicked. He took one step back, and then another as the zombie lunged again, looking suddenly much larger and fiercer than it had only seconds before.
    Unbelievably Ram fled from it. He raced down the stairs, his eyes blinking largely as if his ability to perceive reality had come unglued, while his mind could not get past the concept that he had been scratched. He was bleeding! It was just a trickle, but because of the virility of the zombie disease it meant so much more. It meant he was a dead man.
    “This isn’t happening,” he moaned as he ran, heading out the door and into the yard with the zombie right behind. It stretched out a long arm and grabbed Ram, who could hear its eagerness, its insatiable hatred and hunger. The sound made him jerk and dodge away. Only then did he raise the pistol once more; though he was still sufficiently freaked out that his shot went awry.
    The bullet missed low, striking the creature below the left eye; there was no exit wound. Staggered, the zombie took a step back giving Ram time to take better aim. This time he used two hands to steady the gun and it spat out the blazing lead, forming a neat hole in the zombie’s forehead.
    Ram didn't see the thing fall over. Nor did he notice that all up and down the street a horde had begun to swell, attracted to the sound of the shooting. The beasts came charging at the lone human who all but ignored them. Instead Ram jumped up on the hood of the Humvee and began to dig in one of the pieces of luggage that he had tied to the roof rack. In it was a med box and in that box was a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
    He had no idea if what he was planning would do a damned bit of good, but he felt that he had no choice. Ram poured the alcohol on his neck, and despite the swift sharp pain he worked the clear liquid into the wound and prayed silently as he did.
    Other men had turned with lesser wounds. There had been a man in Glendale who’d had his hand nicked with the tiniest nick. It had been so small that a fear had sprung up among the men that he had contracted the virus through the air. People had shunned him, even more than they normally would have—no one wanted to be so close to an infected man, ever. But this was far worse.
    “I was scratched,” the man had moaned. He had stood apart, trembling with the chills of his fever and with his overwhelming fear. “Look.” He held out his hand, showing a wound that looked smaller than a cat’s scratch.
    No one had much sympathy. The fact was , that in many people's minds, a person ceased to exist once the fever kicked in. The