Zombie Dawn II: A Zombie Apocalypse Sequel Read Online Free Page A

are the first special forces in
the world.  We train harder, we are smarter, and we fight for the best country
in the world.”
    After a bit, the strong rum got to my
head.  Enough of the bullshit.
    “First of all, you sound like a sissy
with that accent.  Second, our Seals could kick your ass.  They are better
trained and better equipped and better supported than you’ll ever be.  Third,
none of that matters any more, you douche bag.  You now fight for a crazy
zombie psycho.  He’s way better looking than your Queen, though.  In fact, I
would not fuck your Queen with Santos’ cock.  What a pig!”
    That did it, and my night ended with
me puking in the ditch after Ian kicked me in the solar plexus with his super
duper English SAS killer boots.  I was lucky he took it easy on me.
    After a while, though, I got to know
Ian a bit.  He was British Special Forces, SAS, stationed in Canada at the time
of the outbreak on a training exercise.  He had no news of his home, which ate
at him constantly.  He was always looking through old newspapers and magazines,
hoping to discover that England had survived, or rebounded, or whatever.  He
never found any, but he got just as pissed off every single time.  Then the
beatings would begin.  Whoever was closest, and believe me, we did our best to
be away by then.  But everyone had a turn.
    Ian was a nasty bit of work.  He was
missing the lobe of his right ear, which had been shot off in Iraq by Syrian sniper
employed by Al Qaeda.  He was very proud of the fact that his own shot had been
a hit and kill.  No more Syrian sniper.  Ian had been captured and tortured by
Afghani tribesmen in Kandahar, and he had the scars—and the missing toes—to
prove it.  His SAS brothers had rescued him, killed everyone in that village,
and threw a few Taliban corpses in there to mess up the investigation.
    Ian had a classic dueling scar, too,
running up his jaw to his eye, but that was just from a plate that his “Mum”
had thrown at his “Da.”  Apparently they had some interesting times back in the
day.  I never knew his last name, or exactly where in England he came from, but
he was the toughest bastard I ever met.
    Ian used a Brit AWM .338 Lapua sniper
rifle.  When he saw mine, he snorted derisively.  The Brits, naturally, thought
their weapons and their soldiers were the best.  The best way to taunt old Ian
was to point out that the U.S. was 2 and 0 against them, and had saved their
ass in WWI and WWII.  And that whatever military we had in say, California,
could quite easily kick ass on the entire Brit military.  Naturally, I have no
idea if that’s true, but I said it just to piss him off.
    He knew I was Santos’ designated ace,
and he didn’t like it.   Ian was easily  six three, two twenty, an experienced Special
Forces fighter.  He would frequently kick the shit out of me. I was pretty much
helpless.  Bigger, stronger, faster, meaner, and better means an ass whipping
every single time.  I was down a couple of teeth, and my nose never stopped
bleeding, because I just could not refrain from taunting him whenever I had a
chance.
    One notable time happened after Ian
had mentioned having sex with a whore in Ireland.  I told him that I had
assumed he was gay because of his supergay British accent.  I knew he would
beat me, but I didn’t give a shit.  Neither of us cared if someone was gay,
either, but Ian had to take me out for mouthing off. 
    My entire battle plan was to try to
kick him in the balls, but he caught my boot and made me dance around on one
leg until my face was close enough to his fist.  That was it.  Knockout.
    I was able to last a bit longer each
time, though.  One time, I even nailed him in the balls.  Knowing that was my
plan, he’d found a cup and was wearing it.  I expected him to go down, but as I
stood there preparing to taunt him, he kicked me in the balls instead.  I had
also worn a cup, which surprised him, so I got a kick in