Death After Life: A Zombie Apocalypse Thriller by John Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

was a slow, not-quite rhythmic thudding against the fence of the Andersons’ property. A body battering itself against the boards. Snuffling growls (a distinctly male sound) and occasional, cringe-inducing raking sounds against the reinforced wood. The unmistakable sound of clawing fingernails. Or by now, the tips of bare phalanges exposed by repeated trauma. Feeders didn’t think, but nor did they feel.
    “You know any rent-a-cop could handle this,” Quarles said, less patronizing than mildly ironic. He was just glad Angie was here, whole, alive and in love with him. She wrapped her still firm and supple body around his. There was no lust in this embrace — she was merely frightened and upset — but Quarles felt the familiar stirring down south. The former stripper had a powerful effect on him, even if years of drug and alcohol abuse had given her face a rather hard, slightly mannish quality. She still had a young woman’s hair.
    “It’s Barry and Kate,” Angie said, a little whiny. “My God, we just had dinner with them!”
    It had been six months since that dinner, but Quarles saw her point. The Andersons were their neighbors and at least on a surface level, their friends. Whatever had happened inside the Andersons’ own little fortress had been tragic and now there was one, probably two, zombies trapped on the other side of the security perimeter.
    As a member of the neighborhood watch — it amused Quarles to no end that he was not the president, or even the VP of that august assembly — Quarles had the Andersons’ keys and security codes. He could deal with this sans red tape and just call it in mañana.  
    “All right babe, pour me a Scotch and soda,” Quarles said, giving Angie a passionate kiss. This seemed to awaken her sex drive and she moaned softly, wrapping her hands around his buttocks. She breathed into his ear in that incredibly sultry way she had. “I’ll do more than that, when you come back.”
    Quarles forced himself to disengage, gave her a pat on the butt and walked over to the Andersons’ security door. As he fitted his key into the lock, the dead thing on the other side of the wall stayed where it was. Apparently it hadn’t heard him yet. That was good. He planned to shoot it from six or seven feet away, to avoid blood spatter. There was some small risk of infection — say if it sprayed him in the mouth or eyes — but more importantly, he’d just bought the khakis and polo shirt on Tuesday.
    The lock disengaged. Quarles opened the door and smoothly wheeled into the yard. For fun he quickdrew his pistol, just to keep the skills sharp. After all, he’d been riding the desk for more than a year now. His days of front-line combat in the war against the dead had ended before his fifty-first birthday. And before that intense year, he hadn’t been in combat since his final Seal Team Six deployment. How old had he been then? He didn’t remember, except that it was happened in that nebulous zone of the 40s when a man still had days he felt 20 years younger.
    Quarles didn’t have days like that anymore, but that didn’t mean it scared him when he saw the feeder charge, closing to six feet in a few short, spasmodic strides. It was Barry. The pudgy executive’s guts were penduluming from the large open cavity in his lower body. He wore nothing but boxer shorts and it looked like rigor had set in below the belt. The guy was surprisingly well endowed.
    All this flashed through Quarles’ mind before he smoothly pulled the trigger and put Barry down. The bullet entered at the temple, exactly where Quarles wanted it to go, and obliterated the little cluster of plague re-animating his neighbor’s corpse.
    Barry went down bonelessly without so much as a whimper. Quarles had also, in consideration of the neighbors who were still living, screwed on a silencer before even getting out of his car. No need to ruin anyone’s night with gunfire to report and investigate.
    Given the clowns on the