Zombie War: An account of the zombie apocalypse that swept across America Read Online Free
Author: Nicholas Ryan
into the sand.
“Take a long look,” he raised his voice and clenched his fist. “Look at the cages and know this is what you will become – glorious killing machines to champion the Muslim cause against the infidels. Warrior lions who will take Allah’s Fist to America, and destroy it with a single mighty blow.”
The martyrs began to chant, raising their weapons and thrusting them above their head. The instructor listened to the sound of their voices swelling with the force of their fanaticism, and he knew they were ready.
“Allah be praised.”
At midnight the instructor began executing the infected. The cages were dismantled and each bloody body dragged onto the fire. Then the hut and tents were burned.
At dawn the next morning - just as first light was breaking across the rim of endless desert horizon - the Lions of Islam boarded the trucks and Land-Rover, and set out on a journey that would change the world forever.
TEHRAN.
The meeting took place in a secret underground command center that sprawled deep beneath the Abbas Abad district in the north of the capital. The area was the location for the offices of the state security forces and the Organization of Islamic Culture and Communications, and so he was surprised when the driver by-passed each building complex and drove on past several foreign embassies.
The vehicle turned, and then turned again, finally braking to a halt in front of a non-descript brick building on Mirzayeh Shirazi Avenue. It was dark. The instructor stepped out of the car. The night sky was brilliant with the light of a million stars, and in the cool still silence of the city he could hear the distant sounds of evening prayers, carried on the breeze from the Mosalla Prayer Grounds.
Three men were waiting for him on the footpath. They were dressed casually, but the instructor sensed the awareness of them. It was in the way they held themselves, and in the steel of their eyes. They were military, and he stood passively and allowed them to search him before being escorted through the heavy wooden door.
The building was a two-story empty shell. Inside was a foyer where four uniformed members of the Revolutionary Guard stood on alert. Each of the soldiers wore a black beard and was dressed in combat uniform. Behind the soldiers was a small, slim man, who stood beside a set of double doors.
The man was wearing a dark, western styled suit over a crisp white shirt and black tie. His facial features were classically Persian. The nose beneath the dark eyes was hooked, and the jet-black hair was closely cut atop a high-set forehead. He watched the instructor being searched by two of the Revolutionary Guard, and then nodded. A faint flicker of a smile touched his lips.
“Welcome captain,” the man said. His voice was almost effeminately soft, and cultured. “The mullahs have just arrived from prayers. They are waiting for you.”
The double doors were opened from within by two more guards, and the man led the instructor to an elevator. They rode down in silence, and when the doors whispered open again, the instructor was forty feet below the embassy district of Tehran and standing in a wide well lit passageway.
“This way,” the man said softly. He led the instructor into a vast network of tunnels, their footsteps echoing in the eerie silence of the cavernous complex, and finally came to a halt outside a wide wooden door attended by two more guards. The man nodded and the soldiers stepped aside. He pushed the doors open and led the instructor inside a conference room. There was a polished timber table in the middle of the floor with a dozen chairs nestled around it. The lighting in the room was softer than the flaring fluorescent light in the passageways, and the air carried the faint scent of tobacco smoke.
Standing, waiting for him at the head of the table was a black-robed Ayatollah.
He was a thin, elderly man, his expression made thoughtful and studious by the
“Take a long look,” he raised his voice and clenched his fist. “Look at the cages and know this is what you will become – glorious killing machines to champion the Muslim cause against the infidels. Warrior lions who will take Allah’s Fist to America, and destroy it with a single mighty blow.”
The martyrs began to chant, raising their weapons and thrusting them above their head. The instructor listened to the sound of their voices swelling with the force of their fanaticism, and he knew they were ready.
“Allah be praised.”
At midnight the instructor began executing the infected. The cages were dismantled and each bloody body dragged onto the fire. Then the hut and tents were burned.
At dawn the next morning - just as first light was breaking across the rim of endless desert horizon - the Lions of Islam boarded the trucks and Land-Rover, and set out on a journey that would change the world forever.
TEHRAN.
The meeting took place in a secret underground command center that sprawled deep beneath the Abbas Abad district in the north of the capital. The area was the location for the offices of the state security forces and the Organization of Islamic Culture and Communications, and so he was surprised when the driver by-passed each building complex and drove on past several foreign embassies.
The vehicle turned, and then turned again, finally braking to a halt in front of a non-descript brick building on Mirzayeh Shirazi Avenue. It was dark. The instructor stepped out of the car. The night sky was brilliant with the light of a million stars, and in the cool still silence of the city he could hear the distant sounds of evening prayers, carried on the breeze from the Mosalla Prayer Grounds.
Three men were waiting for him on the footpath. They were dressed casually, but the instructor sensed the awareness of them. It was in the way they held themselves, and in the steel of their eyes. They were military, and he stood passively and allowed them to search him before being escorted through the heavy wooden door.
The building was a two-story empty shell. Inside was a foyer where four uniformed members of the Revolutionary Guard stood on alert. Each of the soldiers wore a black beard and was dressed in combat uniform. Behind the soldiers was a small, slim man, who stood beside a set of double doors.
The man was wearing a dark, western styled suit over a crisp white shirt and black tie. His facial features were classically Persian. The nose beneath the dark eyes was hooked, and the jet-black hair was closely cut atop a high-set forehead. He watched the instructor being searched by two of the Revolutionary Guard, and then nodded. A faint flicker of a smile touched his lips.
“Welcome captain,” the man said. His voice was almost effeminately soft, and cultured. “The mullahs have just arrived from prayers. They are waiting for you.”
The double doors were opened from within by two more guards, and the man led the instructor to an elevator. They rode down in silence, and when the doors whispered open again, the instructor was forty feet below the embassy district of Tehran and standing in a wide well lit passageway.
“This way,” the man said softly. He led the instructor into a vast network of tunnels, their footsteps echoing in the eerie silence of the cavernous complex, and finally came to a halt outside a wide wooden door attended by two more guards. The man nodded and the soldiers stepped aside. He pushed the doors open and led the instructor inside a conference room. There was a polished timber table in the middle of the floor with a dozen chairs nestled around it. The lighting in the room was softer than the flaring fluorescent light in the passageways, and the air carried the faint scent of tobacco smoke.
Standing, waiting for him at the head of the table was a black-robed Ayatollah.
He was a thin, elderly man, his expression made thoughtful and studious by the
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