Z Children (Book 2): The Surge by Eli Constant, B.V. Barr Read Free Book Online

milling around it. The mother and father, definitely
protective. But the lab tech was alternating between checking his watch and
drooling. If I attacked the others, I had a feeling his watch would take a
backseat to assisting his fellow deadheads.
    Taking
a deep breath, I turned the corner. As if the little red haired girl who’d been
sitting on the floor—the girl with the crop of freckles that was now somewhat
obscured by bodily fluid yet still seemed too human—had known I was coming; she
was already standing and running toward me. The sounds of her snarling hit my
body and crept up my spine unpleasantly. She was only a few feet from me. But
that’s as far as she got.
    The
pistol jumped in my hand. Once more. Twice more. Three times more, I fired.
When all four infected were prone on the cool floor, their bodies oozing
crimson blood that quickly turned pitch black, I walked forward. The closer I
got, the more the details of humanity came into focus.
    A name
tag on the lab tech’s disheveled coat—Bill. Bill.
    The
little girl was wearing a necklace that said—love. Love.
    Her
mother was wearing a necklace also, one that showed a mother and father
embracing a child—three birthstones clustered about the bottom. Three
birthstones. Birth.
    And
the father, his face still etched in worry—Worry even in death.
    And
then I see one other detail. The little girl is wearing a hospital tag around
her wrist.
    So
this is the end. For these people at least. Rest in peace.
    Releasing
the magazine, I methodically but efficiently replaced the rounds I’d used and
moved forward. I didn’t look at the little girl again. It made me think of a
little Z boy hiding in the back of a pickup. My first Z kill. I didn’t want
those nightmares to come back and, like always seemed to be the case, I was
running low on meds. Shaking my head, a gesture composed of both sadness and a
finality of understanding that you have to have to keep moving forward when you
think you’ve reached your breaking point, I began to advance again.
    My
other weapons held more ammo—the M-9 Beretta. It felt good in my hand, decent
balance and fifteen rounds. But, like the M-16, it had no suppressor. Resorting
to either of those weapons would alert the entire zombie nation that I was in
the house. So, neither were options. Period. The only thing I could do was
shoot and refill. Shoot. Refill. Tedious, but quieter.
     Slipping
from hall to hall, I was surprised to find only sporadic contact with Z kids. I’d
thought the place would be crawling with them. Had they all gone outside? Like
children wanting to play in the sun? The thought of them functioning like real
kids—balancing on beams, swinging on swings, vomiting flesh and stomach juices
after a session on the merry-go-round— Jesus, that freaked me the fuck out.
    After dropping
a dozen or so more Z kids and their adult caretakers, I reached the pediatric
surgery and recovery ward. That makes it sound like it was quick-going. It
wasn’t. It was brutal. I shot kids holding torn teddy bears, kids with IV lines
hanging from their arms, kids who still looked too innocent.
    War didn’t
ruin me.
    But,
God, this would. Eventually, after weeks, months or years, this would shatter
whatever humanity I had left. This was not just war on the body or the mind,
this was war on the soul.
    I’m
here. Now what , I thought, tossing aside thoughts of souls and ruin. There’s
still a hundred rooms or more. I can’t clear all those looking for one person.
Shit. Nearby, next to a very large L-shaped desk, was a large cork board
next to several framed posters. The second poster to the left of the board listed
doctors, office numbers, and phone extensions.
    “No.
No fucking way,” I said out loud without thinking after reading the entire
staff list.
    Of
course, after speaking in my normal voice, I looked around to see if I’d just
screwed myself royally. The sound of my speech echoed through the halls, like a
bullet bouncing