Zombie Defence
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Zombie Defence
Chronicles of the Infected
Rick Wood
About the Author
Rick Wood is a British writer born in Cheltenham.
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His love for writing came at an early age, as did his battle with mental health. After defeating his demons, he grew up and became a stand-up comedian, then a drama and English teacher.
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He now lives in Loughborough with his fiancée, where he divides his time between watching horror, reading horror, and writing horror.
Also by Rick Wood
The Sensitives:
Book One – The Sensitives
Book Two – My Exorcism Killed Me
Book Three – Close to Death
Book Four – Demon’s Daughter
Book Five – Questions for the Devil
Book Six - Repent
Book Seven - The Resurgence
Book Eight - Until the End
Shutter House
Shutter House
Prequel Book One - This Book is Full of Bodies
Cia Rose:
Book One – After the Devil Has Won
Book Two – After the End Has Begun
Book Three - After the Living Have Lost
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Chronicles of the Infected
Book One – Zombie Attack
Book Two – Zombie Defence
Book Three – Zombie World
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Standalones:
When Liberty Dies
I Do Not Belong
Death of the Honeymoon
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Sean Mallon:
Book One – The Art of Murder
Book Two – Redemption of the Hopeless
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The Edward King Series:
Book One – I Have the Sight
Book Two – Descendant of Hell
Book Three – An Exorcist Possessed
Book Four – Blood of Hope
Book Five – The World Ends Tonight
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Non-Fiction
How to Write an Awesome Novel
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Thrillers published as Ed Grace:
The Jay Sullivan Thriller Series
Assassin Down
Kill Them Quickly
© Copyright Rick Wood 2018
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Cover design by rickwoodswritersroom.com
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Copy-edited by LeeAnn @ FirstEditing.com
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With thanks to my Street Team.
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No part of this book may be reproduced without express permission from the author.
This book is dedicated to all those we lose in the imminent zombie apocalypse.
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We’ll remember you always.
BEFORE
Chapter One
Nagging, moaning, and whining. That was all this woman ever did. Even if one thing off her never-ending list of demands was completed, there would be no praise, no acknowledgement, no let-up; just a continuation of demands that seemed to have no foreseeable end.
Eugene was sick of it. Sick of everything. Sick of her, and her incessant chattering and moaning. Sick of waiting for his plan to come to fruition. Sick of knowing everything was going to change and he was going to rule the country and there was nothing he could do but wait.
This woman used to be a goddess. Seriously, at the beginning she was a slender, petite beauty who’d rub Eugene’s shoulders and encourage him to pursue his ambitions. She had been soft, whilst retaining the prowess of a powerful, strong woman.
Now look at her, he thought.
Her hair had curled upwards in a way that displayed the puffiness of her overgrown cheeks. Her walk was no longer a sexy strut but a struggling waddle that took up most of the pavement. Even her ankle fat had fat. He’d watch her at night, getting undressed, remembering the way he once used to marvel at the sumptuous curves of her bare body. Now, the sight of her stretched, saggy skin bulging over the elastic waistband of her underwear made him gag. And her repulsive personality… oh boy; her personality had deteriorated even quicker than her body. Her demeanour had a similar stench to her uncared-for pits. She was abrasive, demanding, and rude.
“And after that, you need to phone the water company and get that bill changed, it’s ridiculous,” she continued, Eugene only focussing on the moustache hair that wobbled with each smack of her chubby lips. Her excess saliva kept coming out in bubbles, and he was terrified that one of those bubbles was going to land on his face.
“Are you even listening to me?” she demanded.
“No,” Eugene replied honestly. “No, Sheila, I’m not. I don’t ever listen to you. Not really.”
“Well, how is that going to help our marriage? I thought Doctor Holeson told you that we have to listen and attend to each other’s needs” – this went on, and on, and on, but he tuned it out and thought about other things; just as Eugene had spent numerous years learning to.
That was when he got the text.
He pulled his phone halfway out of his pocket and took a peek. He wasn’t sure why he was being discreet about checking his phone; surely, she’d realise he wasn’t listening. But, alas, once he’d read the message, he lifted his head to find that she was still going, yattering on about responsibilities and dependence and this and that and whatever and yadda yadda yadda.
It’s done.
It was just a simple, two-word message from General Boris Hayes, but it changed everything.
The world was never going to be the same again.
He stood. Put his suit jacket on. Looked around for his keys.
“Where on earth do you think you’re going?” she demanded, highly offended that he had the impudence to dare interrupt her rant. “We are still talking! We have not finished! You said we’d work on this!”
Eugene didn’t even glance at her as he left the dining table where she sat and meandered toward the kitchen. She followed him.
“Honestly, what is wrong with you? I have done everything you need, and you won’t even listen to me. Does it even matter to you what I’m saying? Well? Does it?”
Yadda yadda yadda.
He took the disgustingly beige apron from the back of the door and placed it carefully over his neck. He tied it in place.
“What are you doing?” she persisted. “Are you cooking?”
“No,” he replied. “I am not cooking.”
“Then what the hell is the apron for?”
He took a large knife out of the kitchen drawer.
“I don’t want to get blood on my suit.”
“What?”
“It’s a nice suit.”
She didn’t move. He thought she’d at least run, but she didn’t. She stared at the knife, then his eyes, to the knife, to his eyes.
“Eugene, what are you doing?” she asked, her stubborn rant ending and weakness overtaking her.
“What am I doing?” Eugene repeated, stepping toward her.
“Don’t you love me?”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was a ridiculous question, and it deserved a raucous guffaw. He lifted his head back and sprayed the laughs out of his wide-open mouth. He wanted to savour this, to enjoy it, but he knew he had things to do. Best get to it.
“Eugene, I–”
She never finished her sentence.
He swung the knife straight through her cheek. It stuck there like it was stuck in thick mud and he struggled to pull it back out. Instead, he watched her, astonished. He hadn’t known what to expect. Of course, he knew what he intended when he lunged the knife toward her; he intended to stab her. But, having never used a knife for such use, he wasn’t sure how it was going to go. Since
it was an ordinary kitchen knife, he wasn’t even sure if it would do the trick – but boy, did it. The knife was visible in her open mouth, its shiny silver lodged between her teeth.
She screamed, although it was a muffled scream – she had a knife through her gob, after all.
With a large yank, Eugene withdrew the knife. It took more force to get it out than it took to put it in, which surprised him, but he wasn’t sure why.
She tried say his name again, but it only made him laugh. Why was she being so silly? Her cheek had a gaping hole and her tongue was surrounded by blood. It was dripping down her chin, for God’s sake! How did she expect to be able to talk?
He shook his head. Silly bitch.
He swung the knife again, and this time it landed in her neck. He hadn’t particularly aimed it, he just hoped he’d swing it with such a circumference and such force that it would go in, and it did.
She fell to her knees.
She grabbed at the knife, trying to remove it.
Eugene couldn’t be bothered to use the strength required to remove the knife, so he searched the kitchen drawers for another. Luckily, there was another, and with a blade just as sharp, too, if not more so. What a day this was!
He mounted her, placing his knees by her hips.
Her eyes peered up at him, so wide, so scared. Like a deer caught in the headlights, as the tired cliché goes. Such a cliché may be old, but there is a reason it’s used so much – because it is so accurate. That is exactly what she looked like. A terrified, dumbstruck, fucking stupid deer in the headlights.
He stabbed her in the breast. Laughed as her yelp was muffled by blood. He stabbed her in the gut. In the heart. In the crotch. Everywhere he could – he just wanted to see what happened with each thrust. This was the first time he’d ever killed anyone, and as with all first times, there were, of course, learning points. He would have to do it better the next time, so he figured he may as well practise a few different places while he could, and see how well the knife landed.
That’s when he heard a rustle.
He instinctively turned his head and locked onto a pair of familiar eyes peeping through the doorway.
He smiled.
His second kill had arrived.
Chapter Two
Lucy Sanders brushed her long, blond hair out of her face, smoothed down her suit, straightened her blouse, repositioned her skirt. She was about to deliver the most devastating and life-changing news she would probably ever have to deliver – now was not a time to appear tardy or unprofessional.
As the doorman opened the door, she entered the foyer and marvelled at the vast emptiness of the open room. What a huge difference there was in the way politicians lived. Yes, she worked for the government – but even so, her wage was pathetic compared to those in charge. The ceiling was high, the walls clean, and the floor a perfect marble – it was the kind of floor that made trainers squeak and heels echo. Everyone around her was either wearing a suit or dressed in perfect ‘country club’ gear; polo shirts, trousers ironed by their assistant, and hair swept and groomed without a strand out of place.
Most of them would be dead soon.
None of them seemed at all aware of what was happening. Then again, she wouldn’t have been aware unless she had been given this message to deliver; though she was certain she’d still have noticed the heavy army presence around London. The announcement was going to be on the news in – she checked her watch – three minutes.
That’s when panic would ensue.
That’s why they needed their new leader in place as soon as possible. The prime minister had fallen, as had the rest of the ministers debating in Parliament with him.
How lucky for Eugene that this happened to be his day off.
She stepped into the lift, punched in the number for Eugene’s floor. Luckily, it was quite high up – this gave her time to consider her words carefully.
“Eugene, there’s been an outbreak,” she tried.
No.
“Mr Squire, there’s been–”
Should she really refer to him as mister?
“Prime Minister Squire, there has–”
But he didn’t know he was prime minister yet.
Or did he? How much was he aware of? Surely he’d heard something? He must have had a text or call from someone he knew.
By the time they were done, the bustling lobby would be empty. Flats would have been evacuated with urgent haste, and people would be travelling to safety. Eugene’s armed escort would have arrived and created a perimeter where those – things – couldn’t get in.
What were those things, anyway?
She’d seen zombie movies. But the idea always seemed so ridiculous. Something that belonged in a comedy more than a horror.
Honestly, if she woke up and found this was all a dream, she wouldn’t be–
“Shit.”
She’d been too lost in thought.
She was almost there.
Right. Time to think. Prepare the words. Get ready.
Stop being the shy little girl who never spoke at school.
Stop being the pathetic little runt who got dumped by guys who would always say, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Stop being the person she was, basically. Have some gumption for a change. Some courage, which so seldom came to her. Be the person whose voice didn’t break as they spoke, out of fear that they might just upset someone.
She tried her introduction again.
“Mr Squire, I need you to come with me. There has been–”
What?
What had there been?
The lift dinged, and the doors opened.
She paused. Waited. Took in a deep breath.
But she knew she shouldn’t hang around. They had very limited time.
She stepped onto the floor. Felt the soft carpet press against her toes. Was this the best time to wear heels? Were they going to have to run?
She scoffed. Was this really what she was thinking about right now? Her footwear?
She passed a few rooms where the doors were open. Families were frantically packing suitcases. Parents were kneeling beside their children, telling them they needed to be calm. Behind them, the television was playing.
The report had aired. Everyone knew.
It suddenly felt very real.
She could have denied it to herself before, maybe – but not any longer. The news was out, and life would never be the same. The country was under the control of the army, who were recommending that all civilians barricade their homes. Do not try to get to loved ones, do not try to leave your home, do not let anyone in – everyone for themselves.
She reached Eugene’s door. Inhaled. Balled her fist and pronounced a few clear knocks.
There was no response.
Was he okay?
She tried again.
Nothing.
What if he’d been caught? He was the next living person in line to become prime minister; they needed leadership. Surely, he’d be all right?
She knocked once more.
Nothing.
She placed her hand upon the door handle and pressed down gently. The door was open, allowing her to slide it gently ajar. She peered in.
From where she was, she could see the kitchen.
She heard something. A commotion.
Were the infected already in here? Were they being attacked?
She readied herself to shut the door and run, she just needed visual confirmation first, she just needed to be sure; they needed a leader, and if their leader was dead, then they needed to know.
She leant in further, ever so slightly.
That’s when she saw it.
A pool of blood seeping into the cracks between the kitchen tiles. At the end of this pool of blood was Sheila Squire, Eugene’s wife.
Above her was Eugene. Going mad. Hysterical. With a knife. Stabbing. His wife. Stabbing his wife.
She gasped.
Eugene lifted his head and looked at her.
Locked her eyes with his.
She turned and ran, only to find herself slam into the large, muscular torso of General Boris Hayes.
“General!” she yelped frantically, so pleased that he was there. “You have to help!”
He raised his eyebrows and pointed his ear toward her, as if to show he was ready to listen.
“Eugene Squire, he – he –”
He raised his eyebrows further, showing that he was waiting.
“He killed his wife!”
Hayes didn’t react. At first. Then he grinned.
She was confused.
Instinct took over.
She turned to run, but Hayes effortlessly took hold of her arm and kept her in place.
Eugene appeared at the door. He wore an apron covered in blood. He took it off, revealing his fresh, clean suit, with a few droplets of red left on his face.
“Eugene,” Hayes said. “We have our test subject.”
Eugene clapped his hands together and cheered.
“Wonderful!” he said. “This way!”
He closed the door to his flat and led the way, followed by Hayes dragging Lucy helplessly behind him.
Chapter Three
Since they knew Lucy was going to die anyway, they evidently didn’t care what she heard – and since she was locked in the boot of the car, she assumed they believed she heard very little of it. Eugene and Hayes still attempted to encrypt most of what they were saying with vague chatter, but every so often a word or phrase would add a little clarity, and each dose of clarity would send a huge tremor of fear through her body.