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  Zombie Island

  Published by Samantha Hoffman at Smashwords

  © 2012 by Samantha Hoffman.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permissions of the author.

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  Chapter One

  I lift the metal baseball bat higher, feeling much better with a heavy weapon in my hands. They twist nervously around the rubber grip, and I step silently from behind the building, careful to avoid stepping on anything that will make noise and give away my position.

  He’s shuffling along a few yards ahead of me, right in front of the alley I need to get to. His left arm is dislocated, and it’s hanging at his side. His ankle is broken; the skin is tattered and bloody, and the bone is poking out.

  He’s walking on it anyway, oblivious to any pain he might be in. Upon closer inspection, I notice that three of the fingers on his right hand are missing, probably bitten off. His skin looks soft; the infection’s been in his body for a while, and he’s started to melt. At first, they look like deranged humans that can move fast and gracefully, until after a few weeks and they start to decompose.

  I move forward another couple of steps, and stop when a can goes skittering loudly across the ground, eventually coming to a rest against the leg of a dumpster.

  He stops his mindless shuffling, and turns slowly to face me. Like the rest of them, he’s absolutely disgusting. His nose is gone, ripped entirely from his face; only a jagged crater remains. One eye is missing, probably gouged out by one of the others, and the bottom part of his jaw is missing entirely.

  He moans once, and begins walking toward me, limping along on his twisted foot. I grip the bat tighter and raise my arm. When he steps within my range, I swing the bat, connecting solidly with his head.

  He falls to the ground, moaning louder. I bring the bat down again and again on his head. On the third, his skull cracks, and on the fourth, the head splits open with a wet, squishing sound, almost as if someone had burst open a watermelon.

  I quickly look around, hoping that his dying moans haven’t attracted others. That’s what draws them to an area: noise. One dying zombie always attracts others with their death moans, and that’s how people get swarmed in a massive zombie horde.

  Sure enough, there are half a dozen of them wandering aimlessly around in the nearby street, moving around the obstacles left during the destruction of the world. Burned shells of cars, broken windows, dead bodies, and other zombies litter the street I’m currently on, just as they do everywhere else.

  I lift my backpack higher over my shoulder, fastening the straps tighter, before starting off at a jog down the alley I’m currently nestled in. It’s a dead-end, which gives the zombies only one point of entry. If it comes down to a fight, it will be easier to kill them if they’re bunched together.

  I reach the fire escape of the apartment building I’m holed up in, and I begin to climb. I’ve left it down in case I ever need to make a quick getaway, and I pull the ladder up behind me now. I pass the second story windows and keep climbing.

  When I reach the third story, I climb in through an open window, and close it shut tightly behind me. It’s the only safe way into the apartment, because zombies aren’t capable of working elevators or climbing ladders. Unfortunately, this access point isn’t as close to my room as I’d like it to be. I have to run through the halls, to the far end of the floor, just to get back to my safe zone.

  Since the initial outbreak I’d blocked the doors to the apartment complex as best as I could, but there was always a chance that a zombie could find it’s way in, and I couldn’t afford to take any chances. One bite would undo every measure I’d taken to stay safe, and it would make all of my hard work be for nothing.

  The room I step into bares the obvious marks of an attack. Bloody handprints stain the walls, and splashes of gore litter the overturned furniture, the carpet, and even the ceiling. I hurry into the next room, which isn’t as bad, and find my way to the front door.

  I look out through the peephole, checking as much of the hallways as I can, before opening the door. You could never be too careful nowadays. A cautious person was a live person. And when there are so few live people left, caution is always a must.

  I grip the metal baseball bat in my hands and look down the hallway both ways, checking once again to make sure that the coast is clear. Satisfied that I’m alone, I edge my way five doors down, stopping at the final door in the hallway.

  I open the door and close it behind me, turning the lock and dropping the bat by the doorway. Zombies couldn’t turn doorknobs, but bandits or thieves could, so it was best to always be prepared. Zombies were thoughtless monsters, but monsters of the human kind were much harder to deal with.

  Killing a brainless death machine is easy, killing someone that’s still human isn’t.

  I turn into the kitchen area beside the front door and open the nearest cupboard. Inside are stacks of different canned goods, and I grab a thing of pear halves. The can opening is on the counter, and I grab that too.

  When the pears are open, I drain the juice into a half-filled water bottle, grab a fork, and start eating. The pears are warm and soft, but they’ll have to do because I don’t have much else to eat at the moment. The only food I have is canned beans and fruit, along with what vegetables I can grow in my little rooftop garden.

  After I finish off the pears, I quietly sip at the watered down pear juice. It has a sweet taste to it, and it calms my nerves as I think about everything else I have to do before nightfall, when the zombies are at their most active. They tended to just wander around aimlessly during the day, and at night they formed groups and walked the streets, searching for prey.

  They’d eat anything with a pulse: dogs, cats, cows, horses, people, and even birds if they could catch them. Nothing was safe from the masses of zombie killers and, just four months after the appearance of the first zombie, there was very little life left on the planet.

  I take another sip from the bottle of pear water and head over to the front door again. With the bat in my hands, I feel instantly safer. Being weaponless was the fastest way to get yourself killed, aside from just being plain stupid. Thankfully I wasn’t stupid, and I certainly wasn’t planning to die anytime soon.

  A small, blue water cooler sits on the nearby couch, and I quickly grab it. Inside are three large, empty milk jugs and a funnel. It’s what I use to purify the water I catch on the rooftop. The water isn’t one hundred percent safe, but I have to risk it. My body needs the water to keep going; dehydration can kill you just as fast as a zombie.

  Once again, I peer out into the hallway through the peephole. When I’m satisfied that the halls are still clear, I unlock the door and quietly slip out the door. When I close it behind me, I cautiously make my way over to the nearest flight of stairs. My apartment is on the third floor, and there are five floors in total. Access to the roof is easy, only one extra flight of stairs, and in no time I’ve reached the door to the roof.

  Scattered around the empty rooftop are ten large, plastic, five gallon buckets. Each is almost full to the top with rainwater. Some of it will be purified into drinking water, some of it will be
used to wash myself and my clothes with, and the rest will go to watering the six large vegetable boxes nearby.

  In two of the boxes are a few tomato plants, each with a small to medium-sized reddish fruit. The next two boxes hold cucumber plants, and the final ones are planted with green bell peppers. I would have liked a few other types of vegetables, but those were the only seeds I could get my hand on.

  I place the cooler on the ground and sit beside the nearest bucket, and I open the cooler’s lid. I grab the first empty milk jug, and place the funnel in the opening. Bracing myself, I grab the black bucket, and lift it as high as I can, before dumping the water into the funnel, careful not to spill any of it.

  The jug quickly fills up, and I switch it out for another one. When the second and third ones are filled up, I dump the rest of the water into the nearest vegetable patch. I use water from another one to water the rest of the vegetables and, when I’m done, I look them over carefully, noticing that there are two cucumbers ready to be picked.

  I carefully twist them away from the plant and tuck them gently into the cooler with the three full water jugs. Then I grab my baseball bat and tuck it into my belt. Grabbing one of the buckets and the cooler, I head back down to my apartment. The sun would be going down in a little while and, even though there aren’t any zombies in the apartment building, I still feel exposed and vulnerable outside at nighttime.

  When I’m safely hidden for the night in my apartment, I place the cooler on the counter and take out the three water jugs. I open my fridge where, even though it doesn’t work anymore, I keep three water pitchers with built in filters.

  I empty the contents of the jugs into the pitchers and leave them on the counter to fill up. Next, I grab the bucket by my feet and head into the bathroom to wash. After brushing my teeth with some of the water, I use the rest to wash my hair and scrub my body clean of a week’s worth of dirt, grime, and blood.

  After I’m done, I slice one of the cucumbers and finish the rest of the pear water. With a full stomach and a clean body, I climb into bed for the night. I’d need a full night of rest for my venture into town tomorrow. I was running low on toiletries and some basic food supplies.

  My eyes finally close, and I slip into a fitful sleep, complete with nightmarish creatures, fire, and dying people.

  In the morning, I dress for the day in my special town outfit. It consists of a black, long sleeved thermal shirt, which I carefully tuck into blue jeans and black combat boots. Next, I pull on a turtleneck shirt and top it off with a sweater. After that, I pull on some white golfer’s gloves that I lifted from a sports shop.

  Then, I tie back my long, midnight brown hair into a ponytail, and pull on a headband to keep my bangs out of my eyes. The final touch is a pair of black sunglasses to protect my eyes from any blood spatter from the zombies I might have to kill.

  I lift my nearly empty backpack over my shoulders. It’s filled only with a bottle of water, and a small bag of nuts and dried fruit, in case I can’t make it back to my apartment. After checking my bag again, I grab my baseball bat, and close the apartment door behind me.

  Making my way down the hall, through the ruined apartment there, I find my way down the fire escape. When my feet hit the ground, I crouch down low behind a green dumpster, and scan the closest street for any roaming zombies. When the coast is clear, I emerge from behind the dumpster, and start off at a careful jog through the abandoned streets.

  Everywhere I look, I notice the telltale signs of death. Body parts litter the road like discarded garbage, blood smears the walls, sidewalks, windows, and buildings. Dead bodies, dead zombies, are decomposing everywhere I look.

  All of these things aren’t what makes me pause though. What scares me the most are the small fires that have been recently set in the last few hours or so. Since there hasn’t been much on the roads in the last four months other than zombies, a recently lit fire is a sign to worry.

  It’s a sign of the Zombie Warriors. The Zombie Warriors spend their days in organized squadrons. They’re armed with tactical weapons, and they move quickly through the city, killing zombies everywhere they go.

  That might have been a good thing, if they didn’t kill other survivors as well. My first experience with the Zombie Warriors had been about three weeks ago; I’d spotted them moving in a line through the street I was hiding on, killing zombies. I’d been about to approach them when another survivor beat me to it. She fell to her knees, begging them to help her, and they’d ignored her pleas.

  They had plans other than salvation for her. I’d never forget her screams as they played with her and, when finally a shot rang out, I was almost glad for her. To be alive after what they’d done to her would have been terrible, and I couldn’t imagine living with that kind of terror.

  Upon seeing the fires, I duck immediately into an empty doorway, looking up and down the street for any sign of Warriors. It would be particularly bad if they spotted me; we were well aware of each other’s existence, and we’d fought on more than one occasion.

  A week ago I’d been raiding the remains of a supermarket for food, and one of their members had approached me. He was alone, and he saw that I was alone, too. Apparently, he thought that would make me the perfect target and, as he’d been undoing his belt and pants, I’d bludgeoned his head with my baseball bat.

  His partners found his body later, and the chase was on. They followed me throughout the town for a little over an hour, all the while trying to get a clear shot of me. I finally managed to lose them in a destroyed park, and ever since then I’d been focused on staying as hidden from them as possible.

  Movement catches my attention, and I notice a young many lying facedown on the ground. Fresh blood pours from a bullet hole in his neck. Judging by the amount of blood, he hasn’t been here long.

  As I stare, the fingers on his left hand move so slowly that I for a minute I’m sure I must have imagined it. Maybe he’d been bitten, and they’d executed him improperly. If that was the case, he was about to reanimate as a zombie, and I would be a sitting duck.

  But what if he’s not infected?

  Could I help him? If I did, and he survived, I could gain a valuable ally and fighter. One extra person could mean the difference between life and death if it came down to a fight.

  His chest rises and falls slightly, and that makes up my mind. I take a hesitant step into the streets, deciding to help, when I realize something that stops me.

  A bullet to the throat is almost always fatal, isn’t it?

  What if it was all just a trap? What if he wasn’t really dying, but was just being made to look that way? Were the Zombie Warriors trying to set me up to make a costly mistake? Were they out there right now, waiting for me to step within range of their guns?

  I shrink back against the empty doorway, pondering my choices.

  I can let him die, and have that on my conscious. I could go out there and try to help him, only to watch him most likely die, or I can move from my safe spot and get ambushed and killed.

  What did I do?

  He twitches one more time, and I make my decision again. I move quickly from the empty doorway to his side and, bending down, roll him onto his back. His entire chest is stained red, but something doesn’t look right.

  It all happens so fast that if I blinked, I would have missed it.

  He pulls a knife from his boot and slashes at my throat, forcing me to jump back. A bullet whizzes by my head, barely missing it, before burying itself in the brick wall of the building I’d been ducked in just seconds ago.

  I turn on my heels and run as fast as I can down the street, ducking under cars and whatever other obstacles I can find. Its a few minutes before I hear the heavy, pounding footsteps of running men behind me.

  I quicken my pace, ignoring the beginning of a painful stitch in my side. Now is definitely not the time to get a cramp!

  I jump over a bench and turn into an alleyway, searching for anything that might save my life. There, ne
stled in the very back, is a fire escape ladder that’s been left down. I jump for it and begin to climb, dropping my bat in the process.

  I begin to run up the steps, trying not to fall to the ground below. I can hear their heavy boots clunking on the metal stairs somewhere below me, and I can’t tell how many of them there are. My best guess would be at least four and, without my bat, I’m defenseless against them.

  I can hear them just below me; they’re gaining. If I don’t find a way to lose them now, I’ll end up leading them back to my apartment building. Then I’d lose everything that I’d worked so hard to build: my vegetable garden, my rain buckets, and my water filtration system.

  An open window catches my attention, and I dive through it, slamming it shut behind me. I take precious seconds I don’t have to lock it, and struggle through the empty apartment, praying that I don’t run into any zombies, seeing as I’m weaponless at the moment.

  I find my way to the hall and turn to the left, searching for a way back to the street. As I lurch down the hall, a hand reaches out and grabs me, spinning me into the wall across from the open apartment door.

  The man with the fake blood running down his chest grins at me and swings at me with the knife in his hand. I duck under his wild swing and bring the point of my knee up into his groin, causing him to double over in pain.

  I wrench the knife from his grasp, and slam the hilt of the blade into his temple, sending him to the ground in a slump. For a second, I stare at his still body, unable to move. A crashing in the apartment brings me back to my senses, and I turn and sprint down the hallway, not paying attention to where I’m going.

  When I find a set of stairs, I run for them, taking them two at a time. When I reach the roof, I pause to take a breath. My side is in pain, my heart is pounding violently in my chest, and my lungs burn from the strain of running so hard.

  My legs begin to tremble, and I use my break to look around. Suddenly, I realize that I’ve stupidly trapped myself on the rooftop with nowhere to go but back to the Zombie Warriors. I look around again, noticing the buildings on either side.