Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4

by Martone, D. L.

  Unfortunately, the ranger lying at our feet had yet to get with the program. Cupping his bloody nose and lip, he struggled to stand. “What’s wrong with you people?”

  “What’s wrong,” George snapped, “is that you almost killed my friend, you piece of shit!”

  Stepping backward, closer to the desk blocking the entrance, he shot frightened eyes toward the woman who’d assaulted him. Funny that he now seemed more scared of her than of me—even though I was the one holding the gun.

  With his free hand, Bob slipped the baton from his belt and held it aloft, as if daring us to punch him again.

  I shook my head, exasperation urging me to stop wasting my time with the moron and pull the trigger already. “Look around, Bob, we’re in deep shit.” I gestured toward the weakening door and windows. “As we’ve repeatedly told you, we’re not the enemy here. Hard as it might be to believe, that was a zombie that almost bit your stupid head off.”

  “B-but z-zombies aren’t r-real,” he blubbered.

  “Don’t believe me. Just trust your own eyes and ears.” I sighed. “I don’t know if it was the sound of your engine or the scent of human flesh that lured these fuckers here. But once one of ’em hears the dinner bell, the rest are rarely far behind. By the look of things, this shack ain’t gonna hold together much longer. Not with a hundred little zombies laying siege to the place, trying their damnedest to get to us.”

  Jill nodded toward the door. “Yeah, and now that Mom and Dad have joined the kids, it’s only gotten worse.”

  When Bob didn’t respond to either of us—his eyes wide with fear and confusion, the baton still clutched in his trembling hand—I decided to focus on my companions instead. Until the ranger snapped out of it, he’d be useless in a fight.

  “OK, everyone,” I said, turning to the three women, “I suggest you find some kind of weapon. We gotta be ready to defend ourselves. And if anyone gets the chance, run for it.”

  George glared at Bob. “Where are our guns?”

  His eyes darted toward her incensed face, but once again, he seemed incapable of speech.

  In a flash, she closed the gap between them, grabbed his collar, and shook him so hard, his goofy hat tumbled from his balding head and he lost his hold on the baton.

  “I still have a kid out there somewhere,” she said, her dangerously calm voice belying the seething gaze she’d leveled at the hapless ranger. “My only child. And if he dies because we were forced to leave him up a tree, I’m going to kill you.” She tightened her grip and pulled his face closer. “That’s a promise.”

  I doubted he understood the implication of her words. Perhaps fear overrode reason, or maybe the revelation of another member of our party befuddled him. When he’d taken us into custody, after all, we had sworn that no one else was in the campsite.

  Regardless of his muddled thoughts, though, he soon snapped out of his momentary daze. “Th-they’re still in the car. I n-never got a chance to take them out.” He glanced down at his belt, where his keys dangled. “I was with y’all… the whole time.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. For a short period, he’d left us locked in the office and almost gotten himself eaten outside, but technically, he was right. Back at the campsite, he’d stowed our weapons in the trunk of his SUV. Then, after dragging us inside the elevated station, he hadn’t left the building until wandering down the steps to face off with Little Miss Thin Mint.

  Still, I felt the need to express my dismay. “Fan-fucking-tastic!”

  George released the ranger and slumped her shoulders. “Well, shit.”

  Without hesitation, Clare broke off the legs of the nearest office chair and divvied them between herself, George, and Jill. “These’ll have to do. Just aim for the heads, don’t let ’em bite you—”

  “Or scratch you,” Jill muttered, a melancholy expression on her pained face.

  Clare grimaced. “Yes… or scratch you.” Turning to George, she added, “And like Joe said, if you get a chance to barrel past them, run like hell. Don’t look back and don’t stop until you reach the campsite.”

  Glancing at my mother-in-law, I noted how much worse she looked. The now yellow and grayish-green tint of her skin had deepened, especially under her watery, bloodshot eyes. Tossing that chair through a window had sapped what little of her strength remained. Still, her gaze intensified as it locked onto mine. She glanced from me to the Glock in my hand, down to the chair leg resting in her own, and back to me.

  Without saying a word, I handed her the gun, and she gave me the makeshift club. Though determined to stay alive long enough to get her daughter out of harm’s way, she probably didn’t have enough vigor to swing such a flimsy weapon with enough force to deter, much less kill, anything. Even a zombified child. And since she’d owned a pistol during Clare’s childhood, I figured she knew enough to point the muzzle at someone and pull the trigger.

  Nodding in appreciation, she gripped the Glock and took a fighting stance. George, Clare, and I did the same with our chair legs.

  I opened my mouth to instruct Bob to pick up his baton, but before a word of warning emerged, the window immediately to the left of the front door cracked, and the bloody fist of a zombified Girl Scout broke through the gap. A second later, the fat kid’s head busted through the window to the right of the door.

  As if on cue, glass shattered all around us. In a matter of seconds, not one of the exterior windows in the front room remained intact. The zombified kids who’d smashed them moaned loudly and groped the air, striving to reach the tasty meat treats trapped inside. The only factor sparing us from immediate devouring was the height of the windowsills, and the fact that most of the tiny shits weren’t tall enough to climb inside.

  Unfortunately, though, the sheer mass of them shoving against the building, not to mention one another, had caused a pileup along the perimeter. Soon, the scouts would instinctively mount their fellow undead campers and clamber through the openings.

  With a girlish shriek, Ranger Bob scooped up his baton. Gripping it with both hands, he pivoted back and forth—likely unsure which zombie to wallop first.

  Clearly, we couldn’t rely on any steady help from him.

  Holding the chair leg over my shoulder like a baseball bat, I prepared myself for a bloody grand slam when the groaning door caught my attention. Wooden slats buckled and splintered, pressed to their breaking points by the collective weight of the zombie horde on the stoop. Within seconds, the door would likely explode, and the desk would do nothing to stop the little monsters from breaching the station and tearing us apart.

  “OK, everyone, just fight as hard—”

  I didn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. The explosion halted my breath and strangled my larynx.

  Luckily, though, it wasn’t the door that had burst asunder. With headlights blazing and the engine revving, the battle wagon had crashed through the front wall, immediately to the right of the blocked entrance. Tires and brakes squealed as Casey stopped just short of his mother.

  “Casey!” she yelled, her face aglow with elation and relief.

  The kid was smart, savvy enough to have traced the ranger’s tracks to the station, assessed the dire situation, and aimed for one of the weakest parts of the structure. Likely figuring we had barricaded the front door, he’d instead targeted one of the adjacent windows, gunned the vehicle up the short hill, and hoped for the best.

  Glass, wood, and wiring spread out across the once-spotless floorboards of the newly constructed station. Steam spewed from beneath the wagon’s hood, no doubt suffering from the impact. Undead children and chaperones lay beneath the chassis, including the unfortunate fat kid. Some were too smashed to move, while others still squirmed futilely.

  Beaming proudly at us, Casey opened the driver’s-side door, climbed out of the compromised vehicle, and allowed his mother to envelop him in a bear hug.

  Clare and I were both delighted to see him. In fact, the touching scene might’ve kept us mesmerized ha
d Jill not brought us all back to reality with a deafening shot from the ranger’s gun. While the rest of us were distracted, she’d hit one of the little beasts who’d brazenly scrambled over the station wagon and leapt into the room. Even in her fading state, she’d managed to nail the boy in the head.

  Bob, startled enough by the crash to drop his baton yet again, grabbed one of the folding chairs stacked against the wall and hesitantly moved toward another breach, where three zombified scouts had tumbled through a side window. He swung the chair wildly at their heads, clocking two of them but not enough to do much damage. While a full chair seemed like a better weapon than the chair legs Clare, George, and I wielded, Bob wouldn’t have been able to swing the damn thing hard enough or fast enough to incapacitate multiple zombies.

  Without our guns, we were screwed.

  “Everyone in the wagon,” I yelled.

  An unnecessary command, as it turned out. My entire party was already way ahead of me. I pivoted just in time to spy Jill scrambling into the backseat. George had positioned herself behind the wheel, and Casey sat beside her. Clare tugged my sleeve, trying to drag me toward the car.

  “No, you all go without me.” I shoved her into the backseat, beside her mother, and slammed the door shut. Then, despite Clare’s protests, I fixed my gaze on George. “Try to lead them from the building. I’ll meet you at the campsite.”

  “No,” Clare cried, reaching toward the door handle—but finding it rather difficult with Jill squeezing her arms and torso from behind. “Baby,” my wife screeched, tears streaming down her face, “what the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m gonna get our guns. Now, go!”

  Through the partially open passenger-side window, Casey handed me the ranger’s Glock. Jill must’ve given it to him before foiling Clare’s escape.

  “Good luck, Joe,” he whispered.

  I nodded. “Keep the girls safe.”

  “Will do,” he promised as he rolled up the window.

  Before Clare could wrench herself free of her mother’s iron grip, George shifted gears, floored the gas pedal, and successfully reversed through the ragged opening. I kept my eyes on Clare’s anguished face, until a shriek behind me ripped my attention away.

  Whirling around, I spotted Ranger Bob lying on the ground. Using the flimsy wooden chair, he desperately tried to shield himself from the half-dozen scouts that had surrounded him. But he’d already lost the battle. Beneath his torn shirt, I could see a sizable wound on his forearm.

  His screams amplified as the pint-sized zombies ripped large chunks of flesh from his thighs, arms, and torso. Spurts of blood splattered against the closest wall, but there was nothing I could do. Dude was definitely a goner.

  In the clearing, tires squealed as George halted, shifted gears, and tore down the road. Now that my companions were safe—at least temporarily—I needed to make my move. So, with the zombies inside focused on the flailing ranger and the zombies outside trained on the fleeing battle wagon, I slunk into the rear office, climbed into the empty water-cooler box, and pulled the flaps over my head.

  Since none of the scouts or their chaperones had yet breached the rear windows, I trusted that none of them had noticed my disappearing act. At least, I hoped as much—and thanked the universe that, in spite of my fatigue, sore muscles, and lack of flexibility, I’d refrained from knocking the box over in my speedy effort to hide.

  As I hunkered down inside the darkened space, steadying my breath, and praying to no one in particular that none of the hungry undead would sniff me out, I was compelled to listen to some of the worst sounds I’d yet heard since the zombie apocalypse hit the Big Easy. For two solid minutes—or what actually seemed like two excruciating hours—Bob screamed in anguish and terror as the zombified scouts tore him apart. Eventually, the wails dissolved into garbles as the wounds multiplied and the ranger’s mouth filled with blood.

  Despite my long-compromised hearing, I couldn’t block out the frenzied backdrop of thuds, moans, crashes, and ungodly slurping, not to mention the horrendous sounds of Ranger Bob Roberts meeting his horrific (if inevitable) end.

  Some things you just can’t unhear.

  I only hoped the hungry scouts had devoured enough of his brain to keep him from rising again.

  In the meantime, I remained hidden in that ridiculous cardboard box, trying to make no noise, no movement, and praying that none of the undead fuckers would find me before deciding to seek out their next meal elsewhere.

  Chapter

  14

  “Uh, yeah, okay, that’s about the most awful thing I’ve ever seen.” – Stanley Goodspeed, The Rock (1996)

  Eventually, the gurgling, slurping, moaning, and thunking tapered off. Although I knew the horrendous “feast” had only lasted a short time, it seemed a helluva lot longer.

  But while I longed to escape the confines of the sturdy (if not zombie-proof) carton, grab our weapons, and haul my tired ass back to the campsite, I first had to ensure the coast was clear.

  Beyond my own shallow breaths, I discerned light footfalls shuffling away from the poor ranger, plus some distant groaning outside. I wasn’t yet safe, though; I could still hear the unmistakable sounds of zombies inside the station. In fact, I detected several pairs of footsteps near me in the rear office. One of the creatures even crept past my hiding spot, perhaps seeking out the source of my tempting fresh-meat scent. Naturally, I hoped the smell of Bob’s splattered remains would overpower my own body odor, but as I might’ve mentioned before, luck was rarely on my side.

  As the closest zombie loitered inches away from me, grunting in confusion, I quietly aimed the ranger’s Glock upward—just in case. Holding my breath, I suddenly felt a drop of liquid hit my forehead. Probably fresh blood dripping from the zombie’s maw, through the gaps in the box flaps above me.

  Despite all the horrific events I’d observed and experienced during the past few days, that was the scariest moment of my entire life. I sensed the unnerving proximity of a soulless monster who wouldn’t hesitate to eviscerate me on sight. The drop of tainted blood rolled down my temple, threatening to touch my right eye. If that happened, I would soon go the route of my disintegrating mother-in-law.

  Hell no! I’m not dying like that.

  But I didn’t dare wipe my face. Not yet. I couldn’t risk making any movement or sound—however small—that would ensure an excruciating death-by-zombie-brat. Besides, with my luck, I’d end up shifting too much and inadvertently rock the box onto its side, simultaneously alerting the curious zombie and trapping myself within what had begun to feel like a human-sized, TV-dinner tray.

  While crouching inside the exceedingly tight spot—my knees, calves, and thighs throbbing with renewed pain—I continued holding my breath, willed myself not to pass out from loss of oxygen, and prayed the zombified scout would soon lose interest.

  I knew it would suck to be eaten alive by a bunch of zombies, even pint-sized ones. But all I could do was wait. And wait some more. Even though my lungs ached for air, and my hazy brain was threatening to tap out.

  A moment later, the zombie shuffled away. Perhaps he or she was too full of fatty ranger meat to crave Joe-in-the-Box. Or maybe my body odor was less enticing than I’d imagined.

  Whatever the case, I gratefully exhaled and started breathing quietly again. A few minutes later, all sounds had drifted away, and I decided the time had come to flee.

  If George had successfully lured the undead scouts and chaperones away from the station, my companions wouldn’t have much time to pack up and escape the accursed forest. I certainly didn’t want them to get swamped on my account, but I didn’t fancy being left behind either.

  Slowly, I rose on quivering legs and pushed through the box flaps, my pilfered weapon at the ready. Gazing around the dimly lit room, I didn’t notice any lingering zombies—inside or outside the station. Hopefully, they had all followed the battle wagon, as planned—just not too closely for comfort.

  Between the moonlight
and the knocked-over lanterns, I could see much of the half-finished station, the interior of which resembled the aftermath of an F1 tornado. A large, ragged opening marred the front wall. Broken chairs, busted paneling, glass shards, and other debris littered the floor. Even the water cooler hadn’t survived the undead invasion. Perhaps Ranger Bob had knocked it over during his futile flailing and thrashing, causing the five-gallon jug of water to spill across the floorboards and splash over the bloody, shredded corpse that no longer resembled our clueless captor.

  The juvenile zombies had done a number on the man. They’d ripped into his throat, chest, and stomach with gusto. They’d gnawed his legs and arms down to the bone. And they’d apparently taken his nose and ears as souvenirs.

  As gross as he looked, I couldn’t simply leap over him and scurry through the gaping front wall. If I still planned to retrieve our guns and return to the campsite intact (which I absolutely did), I had to swipe the keys to his SUV—and trust the ravenous scouts hadn’t accidentally swallowed them.

  Cuz, unfortunately, I hadn’t yet learned how to hot-wire a car.

  But it’s definitely next on the fucking to-do list.

  Ranger Bob Roberts—or what remained of him—lay on his back in a large pool of blood, guts, and black zombie goo. As much as I wanted his keys, I had no desire to kneel in that mess and taint yet another pair of jeans. Choosing instead to sacrifice the soles of my shoes, I cautiously approached the motionless body. Recalling that Bob had attached his keyring to his belt, I leaned over his disgusting midsection and sighed with relief when I spotted a glint amid the mess. But as I reached out to unclip the keys from what remained of Bob’s uniform, a bloody stump smacked against my shoulder.

  Instinctively, I jumped backward. “Holy shit!” Startled by my own voice in the preternatural silence, I nervously glanced around to ensure no other zombies were present to hear me.