Free Undead L.A. 2 by Devan Sagliani Page B

it—along with the foul stench reeking like burst sewer pipes that had taken over the street ever since the zombies had arrived—breathing through his mouth in low steady gulps as he assessed the situation. He swiveled his head back and forth one final time, making sure once again that no biters were bearing down on him from behind. You never really could be too careful, and he didn't plan on being accidently turned. He also didn't plan on being interrupted. He had work to do, ugly work, the kind you definitely didn't want to be disturbed while doing—not by anyone or anything that didn't deserve the type of vengeance he was about to dish out.
    Directly across from where he was crouched down he could see the metal door to the Del Taco bathroom, propped open casually by a cinder block with a loop of chain and a dangling key. Adam remembered when gas station owners used a similar method to keep spare keys from walking off. There was a gleaming silver Mercedes parked just in front that partially obscured his view of the child rape in progress. The driver's side door had been left open and the keys in the ignition caused steady, almost rhythmic dinging to waft pleasantly through the air. Adam focused his mind on it for a moment, allowing himself to become centered for the battle that lay just ahead. It was almost enjoyable in a way, that pulsing ding, once you surrendered to it, like a digital facsimile of the high ringing of a church bell heard from far away. In fact it reminded him a little of Christmas music, if he was being honest.
    RING Christmas Bells. RING Christmas Bells .
    It kept the same pace, with the ding hitting right out in front of each verse.
    RING Christmas Bells. RING Christmas Bells.
    He was a handful of days away from the time of year when Christmas music would normally have begun to slowly take over the world around him, like a bad, seasonal cold, although living in Los Angeles with perennially sweltering temperatures, and no clear markers between seasons, meant he probably wouldn't know when the birth of the Lord and savior came and went—and neither would his hungry, undead companions.
    There will never be Christmas music playing on the radio again, he thought, feeling oddly sentimental about it all of a sudden, despite not caring much for it before. No more cheery holiday renditions from Bing Crosby or Johnny Mathis or Frank Sinatra or Nat King fucking Cole. There also won't be any more bitching about all the other stupid things that only seem to matter this time of year, like Black Friday, or how the holiday ads keep starting earlier and earlier every year, or whatever new outrage supposedly signals the next battlefront on the War on Christmas.
    The shrill scream of the young girl being attacked caused him to flinch, bringing him back to the moment, He couldn't see all of her from where he was, not with four grown men pawing at her from all sides, but he could make out the rustling of her clothes on the fast food bathroom tile floor as her assailants violently worked to wrestle her out of them. That told him that things had just kicked off, so to speak, not to mention the ferocious way she was still struggling.
    There's still time to save her , he reasoned, as he inched forward to get a better look. So long as I don't blow this .
    He was almost to the right front wheel of the Mercedes, his body cloaked behind the sleek luxury vehicle, his head poking just slightly over the top of the hood to catch a better view of his targets.  
    Always maintain line of sight when feasible , he reminded himself. Especially when dealing with the living. It was a rule he'd come to live by in the past month, one that had saved his life more than once while he was out on the prowl looking for biters to release. Generally speaking he preferred to avoid living humans altogether, since he hadn't met one since the world ended that hadn't tried to kill him in one way or another. He spent his days scavenging through the