District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser Read Free Book Online Page A

out last, taking up rear guard on the three-vehicle train.
     
    As agreed upon ahead of time, Daymon took the first right at
Back In The Saddle Rehab and drove east on Center Street. Soon, the narrow
two-lane entered a shallow depression and the upper story and wood-shingled
roof of the rehab place disappeared from view. After a long steady climb out of
the dip, the farmhouses near to town gave way to rolling countryside rife with
green fields of chest-high alfalfa.
    Standing out smack dab in the middle of one of the fields
were a pair of prefab homes. A pair of long gravel drives roughly a quarter of
a mile apart led up to identical cement parking pads fronting each house.
    “Cade’s already been through those two,” Daymon said,
slowing and pointing out the white Xs scrawled on the doors. “He never
mentioned marking them up like that, though.”
    Shrugging off the practice that seemed to make sense in a
natural disaster, but not so much in the zombie apocalypse, Daymon pinned the
accelerator to make up for lost time.
    Soon the two-lane was flanked by trees and the red-brown
foothills of the Bear mountains were filling up the windshield.
    “Five minutes gone,” Oliver noted. “Where are we going?”
    “Don’t worry,” Daymon replied. “I’ve been here before.
Whether or not someone else has since is the make or break.”
    Oliver fidgeted with the strap on his custom rifle. “When
were you there last?”
    Letting up on the pedal and steering around a doddering
zombie, Daymon said, “Two or three weeks ago.”
    “By yourself?”
    “Yep.”
    Oliver stared out over the shiny hood at the peaks where
residual pockets of snow high up on their flanks reflected the low-hanging sun.
“There’s no skiing up there,” he stated matter-of-factly.
    “No shit.”
    “What are you planning, then?”
    Abruptly, Daymon pulled the Chevy to the right. He rattled
the transmission into Park and dragged the keys from the ignition. Looking at
Oliver, he said in a pleading voice, “Just humor me … please .”
    Semiautomatic pistol in one hand, keys in the other, Daymon
stepped to the road and closed the door at his back.
    Oliver actuated the power door locks and then looked on as
Daymon approached a weed-choked gate on the opposite side of the road. Interest
mounting, Oliver craned and watched the lanky man crouch on the shoulder for a
tick before rising and venturing into the knee-high grass growing up through
the soft dirt fronting the gate. After a few seconds spent standing before the
gate, Daymon pushed it inward and returned to the pickup with a substantial
length of chain in hand.
    Back behind the wheel and ignoring the quizzical look on
Oliver’s face, Daymon pulled the pickup across the road and nosed it through
the yawning gate.
    Taking the chain with him, Daymon hustled back to the gate
and secured it with the Schlage padlock—just as he’d left it weeks ago. After
looking both directions up and down the road, he returned to the truck
displaying the same sense of urgency as when he’d initially approached the
gate.
    Not a second had passed between the time Daymon’s door
slammed shut and Oliver’s interrogation began. “What the hell are we doing here?”
    “You’ll see,” Daymon answered cryptically as they barreled
north on a smooth, paved road flanked by nicely manicured trees and once
sculpted hedges clearly in need of a gardener’s attention.

Chapter 7
     
     
    They followed the winding drive in silence until a lone
zombie came into view on Oliver’s side of the truck. Upon hearing the engine
noise, the male first turn instantly snapped its head in their direction and
raised its pustule-riddled arms. Head bobbing and seemingly restrained by an
invisible hand, the thing marched in place, its bare feet churning the muddy
shoulder as it struggled mightily to set foot on the pavement.
    “Was that here before?”
    Daymon snorted. “He’s right where I left him. You could say
he’s on a stake