Free Dead Sea by Brian Keene Page B

biker vest. He had no shirt on underneath, and thick curls of black chest hair poked out from beneath the vest. His arms were covered in tattoos, and several gold hoop rings dangled from his ear. Several weeks' worth of beard covered his face. He had a pistol in his hands, the barrel still smoking from the rounds he'd just drilled into the zombies. A rifle was slung across his shoulder, as well as a small backpack, and he had two holsters (one of them held another pistol) strapped around his waist, along with some kind of ammo belt. Round objects dangled from the belt. After a moment, I realized they were grenades. Whoever he was, this guy wasn't playing.
        He moved swiftly, his eyes roving and watchful. One of the dogs ran toward him. The pistol jerked in his hands. The dog dropped. Another human zombie closed in on him from the right. The pistol roared and the creature's head exploded. One by one, he brought them down until the street was littered with corpses. Then he looked up at us and smiled.
        "Come on down. Coast is clear."
        Hesitant, I eyed him warily. The kids hid behind me. If he meant harm to us, I knew there wasn't anything I could do to stop him. He must have sensed our suspicion, because he holstered the handgun.
        "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said. "I just saved your sorry asses. So climb on down from there and let's go while we can. There'll be more of them on the way any second."
        As if on cue, another group of zombies lurched into view. They headed straight for us. With one fluid movement, the biker yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and tossed it toward the zombies.
        "You folks might want to duck."
        There was a massive explosion, louder than anything I'd heard that night. I could actually feel it push against my eardrums. Dirt and shards of brick and mutilated body parts rained down onto the street.
        "Hey," Malik said. "Can I have one of those grenades?"
        The biker laughed. "Better ask your father first."
        Malik glanced up at me. "He ain't my dad. Mr. Reed's just been helping us."
        "We saved him earlier," Tasha added.
        The biker arched and eyebrow and looked at me.
        I shrugged. "Yeah, they did. I would have been a zombie dinner if they hadn't helped me. And now you saved us all. Thanks."
        "Don't mention it."
        I climbed down off the SUV, and then helped the kids down. The biker stuck out his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong, his palms callused and sweaty. I checked out the tattoos covering his arms-a winding snake, a half-naked woman, the Harley-Davidson logo, and several tribal designs.
        He squeezed my hand harder. "Mitch Bollinger."
        "Lamar Reed. And this is Tasha and Malik Roberts." I paused, unsure of what to say next. Living like a hermit, with only Alan for company, had apparently affected my conversational skills.
        "Let's get out of the street," Mitch suggested, releasing my hand, "and away from these burning buildings. We stand here jawing and the smoke will kill us before the dead do."
        "We were going to try for the harbor," I said. "No zombies in the water. You know anything about boating?"
        Mitch nodded; his expression was excited. "A buddy of mine at work had a boat. We used to take it out fishing on the bay all the time. Don't know everything there is to know, but I can navigate, if that's what you mean."
        "Figured if we got out into the bay, we'd be safe from the fires and the dead."
        "Good plan," Mitch said."Can I tag along with you?"
        In truth, I was surprised he asked. He didn't need us, but we needed him. I think he knew that, too. Maybe he was just being polite.
        I grinned. "I was hoping you would."
        "Then follow me. I know a shortcut to the marina."
        He strode off onto a side street and we followed him without question. Still didn't know anything about him, but what