Ultimate Undead Collection: The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

by Joe McKinney

  The blood in the road was sticky and wet, and Ella sidestepped to avoid it, as if interacting with it would make the scene real. But it was real, and no amount of avoidance would make it go away.

  The entire town had been massacred.

  The dirt-covered roads, once filled with life, were now carpeted with the blood and bones of the people who’d once walked them. Ella clutched her son with a shaky hand, as much to hold herself up as him.

  “Wh-what happened, Mom?” William whispered.

  She shook her head. There were no words for the scene. The carnage on the mountain had been a mere taste of what was to come, a foreshadowing of the violence they saw now. Who could’ve done this? Was it the demons? A rogue band of soldiers? No one else would be able to reap so much suffering. She surveyed the scene for some evidence, but found herself more confused. Some of the townsfolk had been stabbed, but others appeared to have been torn apart and eaten.

  There was no reason to the madness.

  She took a step forward, almost tripping over the gutted body of a merchant, his entrails coiled around his neck, his tongue lolling from his mouth. A strangled woman lay next to him, her neck purple and bruised. Each spectacle was worse than that last, and each scene was something out of a nightmare.

  They needed to get out of here. They needed to leave.

  But she was unable to move. It was as if the spectacle had rooted her in place, preventing her from doing anything but taking it in.

  Bray walked several steps ahead of them, swiveling from one building to the next, as if whoever—or whatever—had attacked the town would leap out and grab them. But the town was deathly silent.

  There was no evidence of the perpetrators.

  She pictured her aunt’s and uncle’s faces, smiling as they played with William, bouncing him on their knee. They were gone. Even without seeing them, she knew. She choked on her tears. She’d check for them, of course, but she knew…

  Bray walked back to join them.

  “What happened?” she whispered, hoping he’d have an answer.

  “I’m not sure,” he said simply.

  “Who could’ve done this?”

  Her face stung with tears. The Warden didn’t answer. For the first time since she’d met him, she could tell Bray was afraid.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  Read on for a Preview of Book 2 out Winter 2015!

  The Last Survivors - Book 2 - Chapter 1

  Ella

  They were dead. All of them.

  Ella didn’t need to count the bodies to know that all three hundred of Davenport’s residents had been slaughtered. She reached out for William, but her son had already broken away, and he stepped among the gutted and the strangled, his mouth stuck open in disbelief.

  “We need to get out of here,” Bray urged.

  But Ella’s feet were frozen in place. She scanned the faces of the dead townsfolk, thinking she might recognize someone. A few were familiar, but it was impossible to tell for sure—their expressions were twisted in the throes of death, their features marred with blood and gore.

  “Ella!” Bray hissed, louder. His sword was out, and he spun in a slow circle, as though the perpetrators might reappear. But nothing moved. The village was empty. The smell of blood was thick and fresh enough that even scavenging birds and rodents hadn’t dared venture out yet.

  Ella imagined the cries that had filled the air, the panic that must’ve ensued before the massacre. How could this have happened?

  “We can’t leave,” Ella whispered, still in shock.

  “But we have to—”

  “I need to find my aunt and uncle. I need to find…”

  She broke from her trance and darted down the street, collecting William. She leapt over toppled pushcarts and spilled vegetables, holding onto his hand, pushing the images of gore from her mind almost as soon as she saw them. Her feet had taken over for her mind, leading her from one turn to the next, operating on muscle memory and adrenaline. William heaved thick breaths beside her. He didn’t speak, not even to question her.

  Anywhere they ran was better than here.

  She heard Bray’s footsteps behind them as he chased, but he’d ceased calling for them. The village was silent save the clap of their boots, the world as small as the butchered streets before them.

  Ella flew by building after building, barely taking in the sights. Doors hung open with no one behind them. Houses stood vacant. She’d never seen the village this quiet. Except for The Cleansing, of course. Had The Cleansing already happened? It must have. It was an unbreakable tradition.

  This must’ve happened after.

  But none of that mattered. All that mattered to Ella was following her feet and her memory, making her way to the place she’d once called home. With each street they passed, the carnage thickened. Bodies were sprawled in every direction. Not just the remains of the townsfolk, but the remains of animals, as well, butchered and half-eaten. They’d have to run through the square to get to her aunt and uncle’s.

  Things would get worse before they got better.

  Her stomach heaved and churned. But she wouldn’t stop until she’d reached her aunt and uncle’s. In the distance, about a hundred feet away, she saw the steeple of the worship building, the place where she’d spent many days in her childhood. The peak rose a hundred feet in the air, the walls built from the smooth gray material of the Ancients. The structure was as majestic as she remembered it.

  Davenport had been built around its remains.

  We’re almost there, she thought, as though reaching the village center would somehow erase the chaos. But her body gave away her fear. Her heart slammed against her ribs; heavy gasps burned her throat. She dodged the body of a slain merchant, catching a glimpse of his gouged eyes and the hilt of a knife protruding from his forehead. So it hadn’t been demons. Not all of it.

  Men had done this.

  She barely had time to register the thought when she’d rounded the next corner. She flew past the worship building, giving way to an open, dirt square about several hundred feet across. Bodies lined the edges, many with spears in their backs. Women and children and the elderly had been killed with equal abandon.

  Two heads were in the center on spikes.

  The ministers, she thought. As she ran, her mind conjured the images of Father Towson and Father Decker, who’d come to Brighton for visits and guest sermons. She hadn’t particularly liked them, but they didn’t deserve to die. Not like this. None of this made any sense.

  Tears spilled down her face.

  With William running behind her, she dashed across the square, approaching the slain ministers. The sticks were propped several feet above the ground, displaying the severed, ruined faces for all to see. The alley to her aunt and uncle’s was in view, just past the village center; she’d have to pass the spiked heads to get to it. As she approached, she felt William’s hand go slack in hers, and saw that he was staring at the ministers. Unwittingly, she followed his gaze.

  Only the heads didn’t belong to the ministers.

  Ella stopped running, an icy numbness working its way through her body. She hadn’t recognized any of the bodies so far. Not through the blood and gore. But she recognized these.

  She clasped her hand over her mouth, unable to contain her sickness. Staring at her from the tops of the spikes, their eyes sightless, their faces splashed with blood, were the severed heads of Aunt Jean and Uncle Frederick.

  “No!” Ella wailed, collapsing to her knees. She turned her head and heaved into the street. William fell to the ground next to her, grasping her arm. He was crying, too. He would’ve remembered them. They hadn’t visited in five years, but there was no mistaking their relatives.

  She closed her eyes and reopened them, hoping to find proof that this was all a dream, but it was real. The death and the destruction of Davenport was total and irrevocable.

  Bray drew near, his face sympathetic. His eyes wandered from the spikes and then back to Ella. �
�Blackthorn,” he said.

  “What?” Ella dried her face and looked up at him. She furrowed her brow, as much in disbelief as in mourning.

  “Blackthorn did this to get to you. To send a message.”

  The words hit her like a punch to the stomach, and the tears were flowing again, and she was powerless to stop them. This was all her fault. She’d avoided The Cleansing; she’d skirted the will of The Word. And now others had paid.

  “No,” she managed.

  “This wasn’t because of you,” William said next to her. “It was because of me.” He dried his face and got to his feet. She watched him through a veil of tears. His face was contorted in both anguish and anger. How could she comfort him? There was no way to mend what had happened.

  To her surprise, he raised his fist in the air and began to shout. “I’ll kill you! Do you hear me?”

  “Quiet!” Bray said, grabbing the boy’s arm.

  William ignored him. “I’ll kill you, Blackthorn!”

  The boy had lost control, and he writhed in Bray’s arms. Ella leapt to her feet. She grabbed hold of William’s other arm, doing her best to hush him. His face was flush and streaked with tears. After a few seconds they were able to settle him down. She looked across the bloodied square, certain she’d find a band of soldiers, but the square was empty. Even still, they needed to get out of here. But not yet.

  “I need to check on something else,” Ella said.

  “This isn’t wise. We have to—” Bray began.

  “Please.” She gave him an insistent stare and then started for the other side of the plaza. Bray and William followed. She scoured the ground as she ran, tracing the faces of the fallen townsfolk again. Soon she’d reached the alley past the square. The buildings were small and close together, and her mind jumped to memories of her youth. She’d played chickenball and rattles in the streets, just like William. She’d had friends. She’d had dreams. The scenery was so familiar, and yet so wrong.

  She stepped around the bodies of several women lying facedown in the dirt, their dresses hitched above their waists, made to look indecent even in death. She glanced inside several open doorways, hoping she’d see someone inside, a survivor of the massacre, someone who could explain what had happened. She needed hope now more than ever. But the small houses were dark and empty.

  Four doorways further was the entrance to her aunt and uncle’s. She recognized the door even before she was upon it, and she picked up her pace until she’d reached it. Stomach hitching, she crossed the threshold.

  The house had been ransacked. Her aunt and uncle’s bedrolls were slashed, their storeroom raided. A sack of grain lay empty in the corner, the contents dumped across the room. The floor was wet and it reeked of urine. If there was any resemblance to the place where Ella had grown up, it was lost in the disorder.

  Her eyes flitted across the ruined room. She walked inside and picked up the blankets and bedrolls. Then she went to the storeroom and peered inside. The shelves were barren, the contents either stolen or destroyed.

  “What are you looking for?” Bray asked from the doorway, his sword at the ready.

  Ella didn’t answer. Her heart was pumping furiously.

  “Take some supplies, if you must,” Bray added. “But be quick about it. They’ll be back looking for you. We can’t stay.”

  Ella ignored him, growing nauseous again. She walked to the entrance, pushing by Bray, and scanned up and down the alley. But there was no sign of what she was looking for. She turned around to find both Bray and William watching her.

  “What are you doing?” Bray asked.

  “I was hoping she was still here,” Ella said, tears in her eyes.

  “Who?”

  “I was hoping I’d find my daughter.”

  About the Authors

  TW Piperbrook

  T.W. Piperbrook was born and raised in Connecticut, where he can still be found today. He is the author of OUTAGE and the best-selling CONTAMINATION series. In addition to writing, the author has also spent time as a full-time touring musician, traveling throughout the US, Europe, and Canada. He lives with his wife, a son, and the spirit of his Boston Terrier.

  For NEW RELEASE ALERTS, sign up for the author's mailing list at: http://eepurl.com/qy_SH

  LIKE him on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/twpiperbrook

  www.twpiperbrook.com

  Email: twpiperbrook@gmail.com

  Other Works by TW Piperbrook:

  CONTAMINATION SERIES:

  CONTAMINATION PREQUEL

  CONTAMINATION 1: THE ONSET

  CONTAMINATION 2: CROSSROADS

  CONTAMINATION 3: WASTELAND

  CONTAMINATION 4: ESCAPE

  CONTAMINATION 5: SURVIVAL

  Save money and start with the Contamination Boxed Set (Books 0-3) at a discounted price!

  OTHER WORKS:

  OUTAGE

  Bobby Adair

  Where I’m from and who I was isn’t important except to say that I’m pretty much just like you. I worked lots of years in shit jobs (actually most of them paid pretty well) that I hated. But it finally occurred to me one day that it wasn’t the jobs that were bad, it was me. I hated my job at the widget factory because I was too lazy to chase my dreams.

  Well, one day, I got off my ass and I did chase them.

  Now, after a lot of work (still going on) here I am. I’m a writer. I don’t say that to brag. I only say it as proof. If I can go over the wall and follow my dreams, you can too. It ain’t easy, but it’s worth it.

  My website

  http://bobbyadair.com/subscribe/

  Facebook

  https://www.facebook.com/BobbyAdairAuthor

  Pinterest

  http://www.pinterest.com/bobbyadairbooks/

  Twitter

  https://twitter.com/BobbyAdairBooks

  Other Books by Bobby Adair

  Thriller

  Ebola K

  Horror

  Slow Burn: Zero Day, book 1

  Slow Burn: Infected, book 2

  Slow Burn: Destroyer, book 3

  Slow Burn: Dead Fire, book 4

  Slow Burn: Torrent, book 5

  Slow Burn Box Set: Destroyer and Dead Fire

  Satire

  Flying Soup

  The Colony: Genesis

  Michaelbrent Collings

  Copyright © 2013 by:

  Michaelbrent Collings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  cover and interior art elements © 2013 Stokkete

  used under license from Shutterstock.com

  cover design by Michaelbrent Collings

  This book was built at IndieWrites.com. Visit us on Facebook.

  Dedication

  To...

  Mom and Pop Barbey,

  who provided me with a rare gift,

  and to Laura, FTAAE.

  Chapter 1

  “Mr. Strickland?”

  “Shhh.”

  A pause. Then:

  “Mr. Strickland?”

  “Shhhh!”

  A shorter pause.

  “Mr. –“

  Ken Strickland tried very hard not to roll his eyes. He almost succeeded.

  “What is it, Becca?”

  Becca Lee was famous for this. Bright enough to be in the college prep courses, but she somehow always found herself on the upper end of the grading curve in the lower level classes. Like she didn’t want to run the risk of finding herself in the middle of the pack. Better to win at an easier game than actually push herself to excel. Still, that didn’t stop her from raising her hand and asking some question every time she finished a test. An obvious-to-everyone-but-her attempt for recognition, if not outright validation. She might as well have just said, “I’m done, I’m smart, and I just wanted you all to know.”

  Ken liked Becca. He liked all his students, even the ones who see
med determined to squeak through their high school career on the way to promising futures as fry cooks, senators, and other high school teachers. But some of them really tried his patience.

  “Becca,” he said. His voice was a stage whisper, one he knew from experience would carry through the room. She was in the first row – a seat she had picked for herself, of course – so he could have been quieter. But sometimes a little public embarrassment was the best medicine. “Please be quiet unless you need to go pee-pee so bad you’re going to explode.”

  Titters from the class. Most of them seemed to understand what he was doing, too, glancing surreptitiously at Becca and rolling their eyes before returning their gazes to the tests he had handed out only…. Ken’s eyes flicked to the digital wall-clock.

  Crap, it’s only been ten minutes? No way she finished already.

  As if mirroring his thoughts, Becca shook her head at that moment. Her face scrunched up and there were wrinkles on her forehead that he’d never seen on her before. She looked worried. Freaked out.

  Scared.

  “It’s not that. It’s just….” She looked like she was searching for the right words, then just shrugged and pointed.

  Ken followed the line of her gesture. He wondered absently if this was some new way to get attention. Wondered if there was any chance he would be able to steal away during his lunch break and meet up with Maggie and the kids.

  Wondered if he was going to live and die in that lowest of all stations: a high school teacher.