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    Zombie City: Episode 3: Zombie City, #3
    Zombie City: Episode 3: Zombie City, #3
    Zombie City: Episode 3: Zombie City, #3
    Ebook99 pages2 hours

    Zombie City: Episode 3: Zombie City, #3

    By M.F. Soriano

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    About this ebook

    "Sometimes killing isn't wrong. Sometimes it's a mercy. Sometimes it's the only responsible thing to do."

    In the third episode of the Zombie City series, Shane finds himself on his own again, with innocent blood on his hands. San Francisco has been completely overwhelmed by the infection. Any survivors have gone into hiding, leaving the streets to the lurchers. When a primary escape route is destroyed, Shane realizes he's trapped amongst the cannibal hordes, and he's running low on hope.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherM.F. Soriano
    Release dateMar 2, 2018
    ISBN9781386071976
    Zombie City: Episode 3: Zombie City, #3

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      Book preview

      Zombie City - M.F. Soriano

      Chapter 1

      Ethel raised her foot and slammed it down on the go pedal again, the whole car jolting from the force.

      That same chirpy voice repeated itself.  Battery depleted.  Please recharge the battery.  Thank you.

      Damn! Ethel said, stomping on the pedal several more times.

      Dozens of eerie voices came to them through the car windows.  Just a moment ago, before the electric car died, they'd seen the source of those voices: the freeway onramp was jam-packed with stopped vehicles, and swarming over all of them was an enormous mob of infected people.  But when the car's power died, the headlights died too.  Now all that Shane could see of the mob were indistinct movements in the darkness of the night.

      The old woman who had reached the front of the stopped car was easier to see.  Her grey hair had been pulled into a bun that had come partially undone, so that wispy strands hung down over the right side of her face.  She wore a pleated grandmother's skirt and a white blouse, the blouse marred with a bloody stain across the chest.  The tips of the dangling strands of her hair were clotted with more blood, and a thick smear of it spread across the lower half of her face, coating everything below her nose.

      She stood at the front of the car, staring in through the spreading cracks on the windshield as if her infection-laden mind was too overtaxed to decide who to eat first, Shane or Ethel.  Her dead eyes—the whites largely red from blood hemorrhages—settled on Shane, and she took a step to her left.

      His hand flew to the seatbelt.  He jammed his thumb into the belt's release button, but it seemed to be caught.

      Ethel kicked her door open and threw herself out of the car, disappearing into the dark night.

      Dammit! Shane said.  The belt buckle was slippery in his sweaty hands.  The metal bit of the belt had come halfway out of the buckle, but it wouldn't come any farther.  Dammit!

      The old woman lurched along the side of the car's hood, two steps from his window.

      Goddammit!

      He jammed the bit back into the buckle, hearing it click.  He pulled some slack into the belt, pressed the button again.  The bit came all the way out this time, and he let the belt whip across him, back into the wall of the car.

      The woman was at his window, reaching in.

      He shouted, pushing himself away from the window, shoving himself toward Ethel's seat as the car's gear shift dug into the small of his back.  The woman leaned in through the window, catching one of his kicking feet.

      Shane felt himself being jerked toward the woman with remarkable force.  And then he saw her face drop toward his leg.

      Her face hit the windowsill instead, knocking her teeth in before it dropped out of sight.  She still had a grip on his leg, and with another lurch he felt his leg go through the open window.

      Help!

      He tried to wrench his leg free.  Couldn't.  Another lurch, and he was halfway out of the window, the sill pressing against his hips.

      He looked past his feet, saw that the woman still had his leg with both hands.  But there was someone else behind her.  Ethel, hauling the old woman by the legs.

      Ethel gave another jerk, and Shane slipped the rest of the way through the window, dropping down to the ground.  The back of his head bounced off the asphalt, a sick nausea filled his stomach, and the world seemed to spin.

      He raised his head, dazed, and saw the old woman dropping her face toward his leg.  Her mouth closed over his shin.

      NO! he screamed, kicking at her face with the boot of his other foot.

      The kick knocked her head back, and he saw the wet mark on his leg, where her mouth had been.  But her mouth gaped empty, and there didn't seem to be any signs of her bite breaking through the leg of his coveralls.

      Ethel stepped forward, smashing the woman's grey head with the bat.

      Shane rolled to his stomach, pushed himself off the ground.  There was something on the ground near his hand: a curve of plastic with teeth in it.  Dentures.  The old woman had been wearing dentures.  She must have broken them when her face hit the sill of the car's window, thank god.

      He got to his feet, but the world spun again, and the sickness in his belly turned to acid.  Pressure in his throat.  He doubled over, vomiting.

      Ethel whipped the bat back and forth, one haymaker after another, cracking one infected person's skull after another.

      Why didn't you just shoot her? she said between panting breaths, you jackass!

      The gun.  He must have dropped it when he was fighting to get out of the seatbelt.  He leapt back to the car, looked in through the window.  It was on the floormat with the police baton.  He opened the door and grabbed them both.

      A bear of a man—shaved head and flowing beard, tattooed arms as thick as Shane's legs—appeared at his side, reaching out with fingers thick as sausages.  Shane punched at the man's face with the gun, pulled the trigger.  There was a flash of light and an ear-splitting POP!  The man's head snapped back.  He dropped hard, quaking the asphalt under Shane's feet.

      Another infected person at his back.  Shane heard the moans behind him, whipped around, thrusting with the gun's barrel.  It hit his assailant in the throat.  He pulled the trigger and the man collapsed backward.  He dropped his aim toward the man's squirming form, and put another bullet into him.

      Dozens of infected people around them, coming from every direction, the greatest numbers coming from the onramp.

      Ethel dropped another lurcher—a brown-skinned man in cook's clothes—and darted out of the grip of a third.

      We need to get out of here! Shane shouted to her.

      She spun toward him, using the motion to add force to a blow that found its mark in a short man's temple, the man crumpling.  She had a grim look on her face, her heavy-lidded eyes hard as stones.  Sweat darkened her denim shirt.

      Shane squeezed off another pair of shots—the one benefit of the close quarters being the greater accuracy of his shooting—and scanned the area.  The approaching mob was thinnest in the direction of the Bay.  There was a building on the eastern corner of the intersection, with stairs running up the side.

      Back to the rooftops, he shouted, pointing at the building.

      Ethel swept a woman's legs out from under her, following up with a crushing overhand swing to the center of the woman's chest, and then broke into a sprint, her heavy shoulders pumping like a linebacker's.

      And just like that, Shane was alone in the crowd.

      Fear seized him.  He pointed the gun toward a hugely obese man less than five feet away, and managed to miss him entirely.  He fired off two more shots, driving the bullets into the man's massive belly, but the man lurched forward as if nothing had happened.  Finally, when the man had come close

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