Free Z-Burbia 3: Estate Of The Dead by Jake Bible

what has me wanting to make with the pants shitting. Nope. It’s the sight of five young women , fiv e , taking on a thousand Zs.
    And winning.
    Okay, okay, maybe not so much winning as they aren’t losing. Which counts as a win in my book. Not that I’m a give everyone a ribbon for participation kind of guy. I’m not. But I’ll call not getting eaten right away after jumping into a herd a win. That’s fair.
    Zs turn, their noses smelling my man-stink, and I gulp. Time to get to work. No days off in the zombie apocalypse, folks. Gotta keep on with the stabby stabby and the slicey slicey and the…god, I’m tired. So fucking tired of this bullshit. It’s more than a man can take. I used to handle it. I used to be the big joker. Laugh it off and-.
    “LONG PORK!” Elsbeth screams. “HEAD OUT OF ASS!”
    Oh, right. I really pick the shittiest times to space off.
    Three Zs reach for me and I yank El’s blade from my belt, slicing their hands off at the forearms. I slam the spike into the eye socket of one then another, but don’t have time to get the third before it’s on me. It moves quickly, but trips over the curb, slamming into my chest and sending us both tumbling down the hill. We go end over end. Feet up, heads up, feet up, heads up, feet up, heads- OW! FUCK!
    My head slams into the rear bumper of the truck and stars explode in my vision. Vision that’s taken up by the wide open, very hungry mouth of a Z.
    “Fuck you,” I snarl as I put the spike to the son of a bitch’s temple.
    But the fucker shifts and the spike just glances off its skull, tearing matted hair and gray skin. It snaps at me, its jaws clamping onto my shoulder. I scream at the pain and shove as hard as I can, pushing the Z off me. Damn, those fuckers’ jaws are strong! I have never understood how they can be dead, but bite with the strength of a rabid pitbull. Fuckers.
    It rolls to the side then scrambles at me. The thing is pretty fast, so it must be recently deceased. I’m guessing by the farm attire that it’s a local that got caught up in the herd. That’s the dangerous thing about herds: they are self-perpetuating. They come down so hard on an area that they are able to add to the numbers quickly. And numbers that were overwhelming at first become mindboggling within days.
    My mind is pretty fucking boggled.
    The spike pierces the forehead of the Z and it stops dead (ha ha ha) a foot from me. I yank Stumpageddon back, which isn’t so easy with the connected shoulder feeling like I just got kicked by a horse, and the thing falls flat on its rotted face. Reaching back, I find the truck’s bumper and pull myself to my feet. My head and shoulder hurt like a motherfuck, but I shake the pain off (ow) and start back up the hill (ow). No way I’m leaving Elsbeth on her own.
    There’s even more. More Zs. More death. More blood. More everything. More rage? Yeah, more of that , too.
    The women work as a unit, even Elsbeth. They cut and stab and crack and snap and break and kill and kill and kill; swirling about each other in a complex ballet of flashing metal and raging war cries. Without having to think or coordinate, each woman knows when to duck, when to kick, when to pull back. They are a synchronized killing machine.
    “Get down, dipshit,” Stuart hisses from behind me.
    I’ve been around the man long enough not to argue. My body flattens against the pavement as he and the PCs open fire, taking out the periphery of the herd as it starts to close around the women. They don’t even look our way, just keep killing. Boots pass by my head and I glance up to see the rest of the women hurrying into the battle. Stuart and the PCs make sure their fire is aimed only to the sides, and the occasional stupid Z that wants to come right at us.
    In seconds, there’s a nice ring of Z bodies piled up on the pavement, slowing down the rest of the herd and keeping it from over taking us all.
    “Get your ass back here,” Stuart snaps as he grabs