The Loss (Zombie Ocean Book 4) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Michael John Grist
with a plan to eat into this frustration and find my friend. I need to-
Slap, say the waves. Slap, slap, steady as a pulse.
"At least come back to the theater, follow your own rules. We can do some PowerPoint if you like."
This earns a grin. Lara knows I'm a sucker for a good slide presentation. There's something intoxicating about the hum of the generators and the glow of the screen, in putting order onto a simple, manageable world.
"Fine," I say, and let her pull me to my feet.
Then the walkie at my hip sounds off, and our first taste of this new apocalypse hits.
* * *
They're in the lobby of the Chinese Theater when we arrive, sprawled on whatever lobby chairs, sofas and makeshift beds Ravi, Farin, Christina and Macy could find. We revved past their beaten and soot-blackened white panel van on the race in, only a few minutes after it pulled in. We parked by the glass doors and flew into the lobby's orange gas lit interior.
"Holy shit," I breathe, as I stop at the edge of the lobby to survey an influx of survivors like something from an old world refugee camp. There must be over twenty of them sprawled around the red carpet, wrapped in blankets despite the humidity, all skeletal, pale, shuddering and wide-eyed.
They look like zombies.
"Amo!" one of them calls, as his huge dark eyes settle on me. He looks like an apocalypse horror book cover, with torn shirt and jeans covered in rusty brown stains, black pupils that seem to fill up his eye sockets, a ragged gray beard and wispy white hair despite the impression he can't be more than 30 years old, gray skin that looks like graveyard mold and a yearning in his voice that strikes an instant chord of fear in my chest. "Are you Amo?"
My mouth is dry. My heart hammers like a pneumatic drill as I take these people in. Several have filthy bandages wrapped around their eyes, others have wounds in their chests, their thighs, weeping with yellow pus. They stink; the smell of their diseased, rotten bodies rises like a fog and fills the lobby. Someone's been sick off to the side; I expect one of our people. I feel my own gorge rising and swallow it back hard.
"Holy shit," Lara whispers by my side.
The guy who called my name is on his feet, just barely, though Ravi is trying to guide him onto a sofa. Ravi looks scared to actually touch him, like he might get infected, and I can't blame him.
These people are broken and dying, like they've just stepped out of a concentration camp. Here someone is wheezing, someone else is coughing with a grossly wet hack, here Farin is handing out water bottles which she has to double back on to unscrew the caps of. Christina is feeding reheated mac and cheese to a row of three near-cadavers. Their brittle lips slurp the food down like starving worms.
It's a lot to take in. Seconds pass.
Then I spread my arms. I lock the horror down inside and plaster a smile to my face, stride over and gently hug the zombie-like man who wants to speak to me.
"God, Amo, I don't believe it," he says, and starts to cry. Up close he smells like death, worse than any zombie I've seen. His back feels like the grille on a car radiator, row after row of painfully wasted bones sticking through a thin layer of skin. His face is nearly a peanut of dehydration, so fragile, every curve of the bones in his face sharply outlined.
"Welcome home," I tell him. It's a line I've used numerous times, but never like this, and it rings curiously hollow. "We've got hot dogs, we've got soda pop, we've got popcorn."
"Amo," he mumbles against my shoulder through the tears. "Help us, please."
I lower him to the sofa beside an older dark-haired woman, just as thin, who is staring up at me with big, fear-widened eyes. She's wearing a new black jacket over a torn black evening gown of some kind. I glimpse red marks and bruising on her bare white thighs. "Is it really you?" she asks in a dry and raspy voice.
Lara drops by her side, resting one hand on her knee, one on her back. The
Slap, say the waves. Slap, slap, steady as a pulse.
"At least come back to the theater, follow your own rules. We can do some PowerPoint if you like."
This earns a grin. Lara knows I'm a sucker for a good slide presentation. There's something intoxicating about the hum of the generators and the glow of the screen, in putting order onto a simple, manageable world.
"Fine," I say, and let her pull me to my feet.
Then the walkie at my hip sounds off, and our first taste of this new apocalypse hits.
* * *
They're in the lobby of the Chinese Theater when we arrive, sprawled on whatever lobby chairs, sofas and makeshift beds Ravi, Farin, Christina and Macy could find. We revved past their beaten and soot-blackened white panel van on the race in, only a few minutes after it pulled in. We parked by the glass doors and flew into the lobby's orange gas lit interior.
"Holy shit," I breathe, as I stop at the edge of the lobby to survey an influx of survivors like something from an old world refugee camp. There must be over twenty of them sprawled around the red carpet, wrapped in blankets despite the humidity, all skeletal, pale, shuddering and wide-eyed.
They look like zombies.
"Amo!" one of them calls, as his huge dark eyes settle on me. He looks like an apocalypse horror book cover, with torn shirt and jeans covered in rusty brown stains, black pupils that seem to fill up his eye sockets, a ragged gray beard and wispy white hair despite the impression he can't be more than 30 years old, gray skin that looks like graveyard mold and a yearning in his voice that strikes an instant chord of fear in my chest. "Are you Amo?"
My mouth is dry. My heart hammers like a pneumatic drill as I take these people in. Several have filthy bandages wrapped around their eyes, others have wounds in their chests, their thighs, weeping with yellow pus. They stink; the smell of their diseased, rotten bodies rises like a fog and fills the lobby. Someone's been sick off to the side; I expect one of our people. I feel my own gorge rising and swallow it back hard.
"Holy shit," Lara whispers by my side.
The guy who called my name is on his feet, just barely, though Ravi is trying to guide him onto a sofa. Ravi looks scared to actually touch him, like he might get infected, and I can't blame him.
These people are broken and dying, like they've just stepped out of a concentration camp. Here someone is wheezing, someone else is coughing with a grossly wet hack, here Farin is handing out water bottles which she has to double back on to unscrew the caps of. Christina is feeding reheated mac and cheese to a row of three near-cadavers. Their brittle lips slurp the food down like starving worms.
It's a lot to take in. Seconds pass.
Then I spread my arms. I lock the horror down inside and plaster a smile to my face, stride over and gently hug the zombie-like man who wants to speak to me.
"God, Amo, I don't believe it," he says, and starts to cry. Up close he smells like death, worse than any zombie I've seen. His back feels like the grille on a car radiator, row after row of painfully wasted bones sticking through a thin layer of skin. His face is nearly a peanut of dehydration, so fragile, every curve of the bones in his face sharply outlined.
"Welcome home," I tell him. It's a line I've used numerous times, but never like this, and it rings curiously hollow. "We've got hot dogs, we've got soda pop, we've got popcorn."
"Amo," he mumbles against my shoulder through the tears. "Help us, please."
I lower him to the sofa beside an older dark-haired woman, just as thin, who is staring up at me with big, fear-widened eyes. She's wearing a new black jacket over a torn black evening gown of some kind. I glimpse red marks and bruising on her bare white thighs. "Is it really you?" she asks in a dry and raspy voice.
Lara drops by her side, resting one hand on her knee, one on her back. The
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