Free The Restless Dead: A Zombie Novel by Jenny Thomson

going to tear us limb from limb. They’re going to squeeze out our intestines as though they’re relish and feast on them as we writhe in agony, and then they’ll gorge on our brains whilst our hearts are still beating.
    And if we’re really unlucky, one of those bastards might only bite us or scratch us enough that we’ll join their ranks, forever driven by a constant need to feed on human flesh. We’ll become monsters like them.
    I’d rather be eaten alive than let that happen. At least I’d really die. I wouldn’t turn into a freaking cannibal, a feaster on humanity or a killer of kin. Or would I? We know so little about whatever’s causing this. On the telly, they had plenty of theories and precious little answers.
    There’s nowhere to run because they’re coming from all directions now. We’re in a cul-de-sac and surrounded.
    Scott reaches out his hand, and I grab it like we’re on the edge of a tall building and are about to jump.
    Despite the cold, his hand is warm. “We can’t fight our way out of this one, Emma.”
    I know he’s right.
    Something's crushing my lungs. “Don’t let them eat me, Scott, please. I don’t want to die like that.”
    A sorrowful look passes between us. He drops his axe, takes the shovel and bat from me, drops them too. Unarmed like this, I feel naked, exposed, and vulnerable. 
    He dips his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a Stanley knife. It clicks as he flicks the razor edge out. As I watch the low winter sun glint across the blade, I wonder if it’ll hurt, if I’ll struggle as my survival instinct kicks in. I’ve heard how difficult it is to kill someone. How killing takes great force. I can attest to that, having killed my share of zombies, but they’re not human; not any more. It's not the same.
    Now I’m asking Scott to kill me. What if he doesn’t have it in him? Killing dead bastards is one thing, killing me isn’t even in the same ball park. Is he even capable of doing it, even when I might be carrying his baby?
    In those frantic seconds, thoughts zip through my head like Formula 1 cars, and my head’s pounding like there’s someone inside playing a bass drum.
    Scott tells me, “It won’t hurt. I’ll cut the jugular. It’ll be over fast.”
    And I believe him, but I can’t stop shaking. I’m not ready to die. But I’m less ready to be eaten alive by the dead bastards that are almost on top of us.
    “I love you,” I say. My whole body trembles.
    Scott puts one hand on my throat to hold me still. I see the hesitancy in his eyes but I never doubt him. Not for a second.
    “I love you, too, Emma.”
    Bracing myself, I pull back my hair to expose my neck and wait for him to cut me.
    The Stanley blade feels cold against the side of my neck...and Scott’s hand is shaking with regret.
     
     
     
     

9 THE END OF THE WORLD
     
    A car horn blast shatters the silence, and I flinch. The blade nicks my neck. I shriek. We look towards the noise. A black Land Rover is careering towards us, mowing down every dead bastard in its path.
    One body’s thrown over the bonnet. Another hangs from the bumper and is being dragged along like a potato sack. Two more zombies get flattened, one hits the windscreen and hangs there like an over-sized bug until the wipers whirl into life and knock the dead bastard to the ground where it’s run over Grand Theft Auto style.
    Brakes screech as the Rover skids to a halt in front of us. A man’s head pops out the driver’s window. “Get in.”
    We don’t need telling a second time. Scott reaches for the passenger door handle. It’s stuck, and those bastards are still coming at us, even the ones with horrendous injuries, and I expect to be grabbed before I make it inside the car.
    The driver tosses something out. The thing’s fitzing and fizzing like a sparkler. There’s a deafening bang and a flash so bright it casts our shadows on the body of the car. The reek of barbecued flesh fills the air, and I