All Hell by Allan Burd Read Free Book Online Page A

hair. One of its eyeballs is hanging to the side by a sliver of muscle tissue. Part of its forehead is peeled back partially revealing its skull.
    I place two rounds in its distorted face. Bone fragments shatter but it still rises. I step around it and place two more where its brain should be. The skull gives. A splash of gray matter oozes out. But still, it comes. This is the third time I’ve encountered zombies. The first was with gypsies in Bulgaria, the second on the coasts of Norway. Both times was nasty business, but this is the first time a head shot didn’t do the trick.
    I look at Sidekick. There are three rising behind him and he couldn’t care less. He waits until they’re fully out of the ground before he acts. He’s in an upright offensive stance, coiled with the grace of a true warrior. He steps on a long branch, flips it up, and catches it in his front paw. Then, with lightning reflexes, he spins and jams it through the middle one’s neck. Its head flops to the side but it steps towards him anyway. Sidekick dodges a slow, lame swipe and, ironically enough, sidekicks one into the next, toppling all three of them.
    “Which way?” he says, practically ordering me to stay on the trail. I tilt my head in the right direction. But before we go, Sidekick withdraws the branch from the zombie’s neck then stabs another one of them through the eye with it. He chuckles as he sees that doesn’t even halt its movements. The friggin’ things just won’t die. Worse, more start rising out of the ground. “Let’s go,” Sidekick says to me, as if none of this bothers him.
    I ain’t about to argue. I back step away from a zombie’s lumbering swipe and shoot it in the knee. It falls, though now it’s crawling towards me. “These undead creeps are nothing if not persistent,” I say, moving forward. I double the pace of my tracking, putting some distance between us, thankful that the zombies are as slow as snails in a snowstorm. A peek back shows at least a dozen following us.
    The ground’s getting softer. I spot a series of wolf tracks easy to follow. They lead even deeper into the yard. I’m running full speed. Sidekick’s trotting, yet still way ahead of me making me wish I had him on a leash. At least we’re putting some distance between us and the undead. I notice the tracks we’re following are now headed in both directions, so I know we’re close. Then the trail stops dead at one particular grave. There’s a hole dug, at least six feet deep. The dirt pile looks fresh. I look at the tombstone and it’s surprisingly smooth, like it’s brand new. Then I read what’s inscribed on it and all my instincts tell me I’m fucked.
    R.I.P. Frank Jones is written in all capital letters. Old Man Jones . Underneath 1932-2014. In between… Hellraiser.
    My mind scrambles to put the jigsaw puzzle together. Most of it immediately clicks, including the fact that Jones wasn’t the decent man I thought he was, but I still can’t place a few pieces. I’ll have to figure those out later. I quickly scout for an exit but zombies are rising around the perimeter faster than weeds in my Aunt Bessie’s garden. I turn. Sidekick can’t stop laughing. And who could blame ‘em. This whole adventure has been one big joke and I’m the punch line. But I’ll be damned if I’m dying alone. I fire a shot almost point blank into Sidekick’s chest. Unfortunately, it’s not silver. He shrugs it off like Superman, smacks the gun from my hand, grabs hold of my hair, and lifts me off the ground like I was a toy. My feet dangle which, as a little person, really pisses me off.
    “Why now?” I ask. “Why not kill me at the stable, or back at your den? Why not let little rabbit Fufu take a bite out of me?”
    He tilts his head toward the ground and I notice it, an arc of charcoal colored ash. My eyes follow it and I see it surrounds me in a circle with about a twenty yard diameter. Ten yards behind that the zombie hoards stop,