Free Death After Life: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller by John Evans

road, and the next he had an incendiary grenade rolling at his feet.
    He scrambled out before the boom set his spider-hole ablaze, whipping out his old but reliable uzi. Of course he didn’t need to notice the red laserlight on him. He clocked the guy, posted in a tree like some special ops sniper, rifle aimed. Target zeroed.
    “Drop the Israeli iron,” the man said in an amplified voice. It was metallic, soulless, inhuman. He was using some kind of built-in mic because both hands were on the rifle, unwavering, but his voice was more than loud enough to hear over the crackling flames.
    “All right bro, no problem,” Murphy said, tossing the uzi and putting his hands up. “You National Guard, Army regular or what?”
    “I want you to pretend you’re a rug. Right now,” the sniper instructed.
    Murphy knew the guy had him dead to rights. He was hoping this was official business, precautionary measures before a little Q & A. Couldn’t be too careful these days. And he felt better having a spring-loaded combat knife as an ace up his sleeve (literally). So he complied.
    It didn’t take long for the man to descend from his little aerie and circle around behind, but Murphy anticipated the zip-tie angling for his wrist. He popped the knife and slashed at where he knew ankles would be.  
    The blade cut only air. Maybe the guy saw Murphy’s elbow tense and maybe he was just that cobra-quick. But he hopped over the swing, jumped again and one combat boot landed solidly on Murphy’s elbow, pinning the knife arm to the ground. Hands tightened on Murphy’s wrist and twisted mercilessly. It was so sharp and sudden that the horrible pop told Murphy what had happened before the white-hot pain hit.
    “Sorry Murphy, from here on out I’ll be doing the hurtin’.”
    Before he knew what was coming, Murphy’s other arm was broken too.
    The cuts came later, once he was chained to the tow-truck rig on the back of the squatty, heavily plated vehicle. The masked man methodically bared Murphy’s arms and legs, slicing him with an impossibly sharp tactical knife.
    “Please bro,” he begged. “Can we make some kind of a deal? I’ve got lots of stuff—”  
    Rather than saying “shut up,” or anything at all, the large dude (he was at least twice Murphy’s size, and Murphy considered himself of average build) simply rammed the butt of the knife into his cheekbone, shattering it.  
    Murphy lost consciousness then. When he came to they were moving, and the harsh droning of the air raid siren was shattering the stillness of the wild. Summoning all feeders within earshot.
    That was five, maybe six hours ago. Murphy felt weak, drained by blood loss and the trauma of multiple injuries, but his heart was still pumping.
    Dawn was near. The first rosy trickles of color on the horizon and the lightening sky revealed more details of the dirt road they were on. Murphy figured they were heading south, out of his hunting zone and into unfamiliar territory.
    Now there was a main group of 40, maybe 50 feeders doggedly pursuing their prize. They’d left many slower ones behind but in the dawn’s light, he could still see them in the distance. Not giving up. There was no quit in a corpse. So the real herd here numbered in the hundreds.
    Murphy had a feeling he wasn’t the only one about to have a very bad day.

C HAPTER F IVE

    THE LAST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE

    MORNING DAWNED PALE and rosy in the Pacific Northwest. Sluggish clouds drifted in an overcast sky.
    A procession of cars trickled westward on a state highway. The road divided rows of modest houses from a swathe of forested hills, draped in cold mist. The air was perfectly still.
    On the outskirts of the high ground, a THERE IS NO CURE billboard loomed over a small graveyard. Though its monuments were crumbling and mossy, traditional images of willows, funeral urns and angels endured.  
    Behind the wrought-iron bars of the rear fence was a stucco house. A raven alit on the