Free The Undead World (Book 6): The Apocalypse Exile (War of The Undead) by Peter Meredith Page B

Joslyn down: “It wasn’t anything like that! Lindsey had been bitten and was being dragged out into the horde. There was no saving her and Sadie did what she had to do, which is more than you did. It was a mercy killing, for Pete’s sake!” Michael was in a rage at the stupidity of the accusation, however Grey noted he hadn’t mentioned anything about Eve. That point was glossed right over.
    With one drama seemingly ended, Fred Trigg suddenly pointed a finger to begin another. “She got bit.” He had singled out a woman named Arlene, one of the ex-whores. At one time she had been pretty, however the apocalypse had worn away that layer and underneath was a pinched, nervous woman.
    Deanna stepped between Arlene and Fred so that the finger was pointing at her. She glared until Fred put his hand down. When she continued to glare, he stuck the offending hand in his pocket. Arlene hid behind Deanna. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said. She was alabaster in color and expression, and, at the confession, the other renegades began to move slowly away from her, most with either nervous looks or disgusted ones.
    “Of course it’s not your fault,” Neil said to her in a kind voice. He then turned to Grey. “Get your med kit, quick. There may still be time to wash out the wound.”
    “It’s too late,” Arlene mumbled. Her arms were crossed and each hand had a grip on her bare flesh, making indented half-moon nail marks. There was blood on her left calf where the BDUs she had picked up at Fort Campbell were torn. The blood was already a dark maroon and sticky to the touch.
    Neil shook his head. “It’s never too late, Arlene. You never know.”
    Grey knew that this time Neil was wrong. He had heard of only two instances that a person was blooded by a stiff and lived. One being Neil’s friend Ram and the other had been a private under his command the year before during their long retreat north from Santa Fe. That had been a hellacious three weeks of no sleep and running battles, desperately trying to keep their dwindling brigade between the stiffs and the fleeing civilians. The private, a mere boy in Grey’s eyes, had been trapped along with his entire squad in the basement of a suburban tract house in some dusty, desert town. With supplies being rationed down to a few hundred calories a day, they were as famished as wolves and had gone scavenging, only to be separated from the main force and trapped.
    The boy was the only one to return. When he did, his eyes were empty, his cheeks hollow. There was no more fight left in him. He hobbled everywhere because he had cut all the toes off his left foot with his Ka-bar. As his story went, the squad had fought to the last bullet in the dim and cramped basement. When the zombies had broken through the door, the other men had started swinging their M16s like they were clubs in order to allow the private, Yeager was his name, an opportunity to escape. He had wriggled part-way through a squat little box of a window when a stiff had caught him by the foot as he had struggled out into the daylight. The beast had ripped off his boot and had bitten his toes down to the bone.
    Grey didn’t buy the story. He was sure they’d been trapped and he was sure that Yeager’s toes had been bitten, but there was a lie somewhere in the tale. For one, properly laced combat boots couldn’t be simply ‘ripped’ off, no matter how strong the zombie was. For two, Yeager hadn’t been so well-liked that the other men in his squad would lay down their lives for him. What was for sure was that his toes had been chopped clean off and he had come back without a single bullet on his person.
    Arlene wasn’t going to be as lucky; she was going to lose a lot more than a few toes. As the others milled and talked about the battle, Grey took Arlene to the driver’s side of his five-ton; he kept his med-bag stuffed in the small space behind the seat. Quickly, he pulled out scissors, rubbing alcohol and a roll