Free A Shrouded World (Book 2): Atlantis by John O'Brien, Mark Tufo Page A

dinner guests.
    I plodded on. “Kiss my ass,” I told the Slimy Seven. Up, down, all around; now if I could just do the Hokey Pokey. I had to dry my hands before going down the next ladder; it was like I had fountains sprouting from my pores, coating everything in a thick layer of sweat. I smiled as my right leg seemed to take a modicum of direction from me. A restless leg syndrome sufferer high on cocaine probably could have done better, but it was a start. Midway across the next car, my legs started burning with that intense pins-and-needles feeling of being asleep—only these needles were turkey-baster sized. I was thankful my tongue wasn’t parked between my teeth, or else I would have neatly sheared it in half when I clenched my jaw. I lost precious time again waiting for the sensation to subside. I almost—nope, scratch that, I’m man enough to admit it: I blubbered like a fucking baby when I kindly asked my legs to move, and they did. Like the brainiac that I am, I immediately decided to test my limits. I no sooner made it vertical than I had to catch myself as I fell back down, and fell hard. BUT! There had been a moment, a brief one, sure, but a moment nonetheless wherein I stood on my own.
    Now the question was if I should keep plodding on in the same fashion or wait until I could move with more speed. Both had merits; I erred on the periphery of suicide. Just my style, every inch I got closer to Jack and Trip could mean the difference. I made my twelfth jump, or was it the twenty-fifth? I only know that when my right leg, instead of just colliding into the ladder, actually found purchase I almost cried again, and I would have if I could have spared the hydration. Like a stroke victim, my left leg was still dragging behind me. I knew I was running out of time, but that didn’t stop me from laughing out like a damned loon as I lumbered my way across the top of that next car. Shuffling along, dragging my left leg, I looked very much like the enemy I was trying to get away from.
    “Shit,” I said, staring at my next, much more dangerous obstacle. The car ahead was a tanker, rounded at the top. It had a walkway built in, but it couldn’t have been more than a foot wide. Any collapse on my part and I would pitch off the side. The Slimy Seven was now the Scuzzy Six—one of the men must have lost interest when the zombie women said they didn’t want anything to do with his raggedy ass. Not that it made me any keener on their pursuit.
    “Well, sorry guys,” I said as I fished in the bag. “Not sure why I didn’t think of this earlier, but I’m going to need to improve my odds.”
    The zombies stared at me as I aimed the little box, two of the women’s heads tilting to the side as I did so. If I was a little smarter, I would have shot them first. Hindsight is always so crystal clear. Like the chauvinist that I am, I figured the dipshit male to be my biggest threat. I nailed him in the forehead; his eyes crossed and he went down in a plume of dust.
    “Score one for the good guys!” I shouted triumphantly. I killed two of the women in similar fashion. The two that had been watching me intently figured out that I was dangerous and screwed out of range, their friend following quickly.
    I’d said it before, but it’s worth reiterating: “I really hate smart zombies.” I tucked the gun back in the bag and went down the ladder, this time my recalcitrant leg beginning to work with me. It appeared the strike was over and we could begin working together in concert toward a common goal, though they did still exhibit some lingering dissatisfaction.
    I actually stepped on the coupling between the two cars, though only for a heartbeat or two while I reached over and grabbed the ladder. It was a success, but I was not in a rush to test just how successful. I climbed the ladder, fearful that the Terrible Trio would take this opportunity to come at me. Looks like I’d put the fear of some zombie deity in their heads: