Free Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 2): Conflict by Joshua Jared Scott Page A

needed to drive off quickly.
    “Totally
fucked up!” declared Lizzy.
    “Think
you can be any louder?”
    “Like no
one heard us drive up squirt. It’s dead quiet out here, minus the dead. Barely
even any animals about town.”
    I looked
around. Lizzy was correct. Normally, we saw raccoons or deer a plenty,
especially if the zombies were sparse on the ground. While completely ignored
by the shamblers, wildlife always went out of its way to keep a distance.
    “There
might be people. Be careful.”
    “Or the
animals ran off when we drove up,” amended Lizzy, “not like that never
happens.” She retrieved a M-16, along with a bandolier of clips.
    Briana
had insisted, on pain of withholding her womanly affections, that we take
serious firepower with us instead of the pistols and rifles we normally used.
Now, pistols are the ideal weapon when fighting zombies. The things advance
slowly, allowing a person to shoot them in the head, one after another. You
can, of course, take them down at a distance with a rifle, but that was
difficult when you were on the move, entering and exiting buildings or going
down narrow alleys. No, it was the fear of encountering breathers that prompted
the upgrade in our weapons.
    “Mine’s
prettier than yours,” mocked Mary, “and it’s shinier.”
    “They’re
the same gun.” Lizzy motioned for the girl to get behind her. “I got point this
time. Jacob’s in the back.”
    We
entered through a hole in the wall. Several buildings had originally been
connected by a series of walls, creating a massive courtyard and ample living
space for the survivors. When the raiders struck, they blasted their way
inside.
    “Remember
all those bodies?”
    I
nodded. “Yes.”
    “Well,
what happened to them?” demanded Lizzy. “There aren’t even any bones left.”
    “People
were here,” answered Mary. “I bet it was the ones that book said were out
exploring. They came back and found all their friends dead and buried them.”
    “The
question then,” I said, “is if they are still around or not.”
    “Want to
yell and see who comes?” asked the teenager.
    “You do
it Lizzy,” I suggested. “You’re the loudest.”
    “Hey!
Anyone here!” Her gaze shifted to me. “Just what do you mean by saying I’m the
loudest?”
    “Lizzy
my dear, no one compares to you.”
    Mary was
grinning.
    “Asshole.”
She looked around. “Let’s check the buildings.”
    We
targeted the structure that we knew from our prior visit was their warehouse
but found it empty. Every can and box of food, every last bottle of water was
gone. Slightly perturbed, we continued our search, checking each building in
turn, but there was nothing of value. Even the rooms being used as offices had
been stripped bare, with any records of the prior inhabitants removed.
    “Whoever
did this was pretty thorough,” commented Mary, “way more than the raiders. They
only took the good stuff.”
    “I think
we should head out, maybe drive around the town.”
    Lizzy
nodded her approval, and we made our way back the way we’d come. We were almost
to the Jeeps when a voice called out.
    “Hold it
right there.”
    The man,
a large black fellow wearing a cowboy hat and a pair of Doc Martens – those two
items really don’t go together – stepped out from behind a tree. He was
carrying a shotgun, but it wasn’t pointed in our direction.
    “And how
are you doing today?” I asked.
    Lizzy
grunted, but she kept the barrel of her assault rifle angled toward the ground.
    “I’m
just dandy, for the most part. Name’s Marcus. Don’t be trying anything. Got the
twins covering you, and they’re deadly shots. We’re talking Olympic gold medal
standard.”
    “You
mean Tara and Dale?” asked Mary, as sweetly as she could.
    The man
paused. “How would you know about them?”
    I slung
my M-16 over one shoulder and took a seat on the hood of my Jeep. “Back in
November we got a message on the radio, not for us directly but a