EAT, SLAY, LUZT: A sexy wild ride through the dark heart of the zombie apocalypse.

by Jillian Stone

  He killed the engine and took off his helmet. I can only imagine how I looked. Big wide eyes, one of those deer in the headlights looks. “You almost got us killed.” I gasped.

  He flashed a grin. “But we lost the bats.”

  I punched his upper arm hard. Then I did it again.

  “Hey, hey—” He grabbed both of my fists and held me close while I cursed a blue streak.

  He appeared more amused than perturbed. “Keep it down. There’s bound to be stragglers around, maybe live combatants.”

  I pulled away and circled him, heart racing, gulping for air. I stopped in my tracks. “Zombie bats…really?”

  “Dangerous, stealthy little fuckers. A big swarm almost brought down an Apache.” At least his annoying grin faded. “They’re hard to kill, and those needle-sharp teeth can infect you faster than an undead human.”

  “It’s weird…” I shook my head. “I’m not that scared when I’m killing zombies.”

  “Yeah you are, but you’re also in control.”

  I stared at him with angry eyes. “Are you saying I’m a control freak?”

  A side of his mouth tilted up, which infuriated me even more.

  “Lizzy, the only way we’re going to make it to K1 is by risking everything. And we’re most likely going to die trying. The sooner you accept that the better.”

  I continued to stare at him. Why did he have to be so beautiful and reckless and brave?

  He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What do you want me to say? You’re right. I’m a control freak.”

  “I give the orders. You follow them. And maybe we stay alive.”

  I swallowed. “Okay.”

  He arched a brow.

  “I said…okay.”

  He swung a fine looking leg over the bike and handed me a pistol. “We go room by room, so stay close. And take the helmet off. Things are going to get pretty dim, you’ll need your peripheral vision.” He pulled a chain and lowered the double-wide roll-up door.

  The warehouse had been looted, and the offices were in complete disarray. A beam of strong white light shot out from under the muzzle of his M4. We checked an adjacent space that was divided into smaller storage containers.

  “Use your sight.” He reached over and showed me how to activate the laser.

  Chris checked the storage lockers while I opened doors. One led outside the building, another led to yet another section of warehouse, and the third—as I approached the door, something shifted inside.

  Chris immediately positioned himself in front of the opening. He pointed at me, then the door. “On three—”

  “One…two…” I turned the doorknob. “Three.” I yanked the door open and something short and gray leaped out at us. Chris lowered his aim and fired. The pint-sized zombie fell to the ground, hissing and squirming.

  He fired into the back of the head.

  “Jeezus, kids are the worst.” I sighed. “Sad and…creepy.”

  Chris nodded with a grunt.

  One by one, we cleared each locker. “Looks like the place is all ours.” He put down his weapon. “I say we barricade the outside doors, and move the bike into one of the storage spaces.”

  “How do we get in and out?” I asked.

  He pointed to the window high above.

  Chris jammed the garage door chain and I helped him push the bike into an empty container. We moved anything heavy we could find against the remaining doors. I clapped the dust off my hands. “Now what?”

  He rolled a barrel under the skylight and turned it upside down. “Now the scavenger hunt begins.”

  He pulled a nylon rope ladder out of his backpack. It takes a crazy amount of muscle, mostly core strength, to climb up and down a rope ladder. I made it to street level, abs trembling and legs wobbly.

  “Jeezus,” I gasped, sucking in oxygen.

  Chris nodded ahead. “Take the lead, I’ll watch our backs.”

  I moved out, then hesitated. “How come I get the whole front part?”

  “Because I rotate between both. The rear guard position takes training and coordination.”

  “What—walk backwards and occasionally swing your gun forward? I watched Zero Dark Thirty. I’ve played Call of Duty. Not that hard, Chris.”

  “Fuck. Are we really going to argue about this? I thought you’d like the control, being out in front.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Go on—I’ll cover you.”

  Raindrops sprinkled my nose and the parched ground below. The pungent scent of damp earth rose from under my boots. Slowly, we made our way into Ruwayshid, darting between buildings, checking gas tanks, taking cover under torn awnings and open doorways.

  “Movement up ahead.” Chris pointed his M4 in the general direction.

  We froze and waited.

  A flash of lightning lit up the inside of a parked vehicle. I kept my voice low. “Toyota pickup, driver’s side.”

  Chris shouldered his weapon and unsheathed a knife. “No sense in alerting any hostiles.”

  I eyeballed the hunting blade. “Keep it low, behind the ear.”

  “I know how to kill, Lizzy.” He crept up on the driver’s side window and drove the knife inside the truck.

  Nothing but zombie gurgle.

  Storm clouds rumbled overhead. Ruwayshid was not unlike every village or town in Southern Jordan, war-torn and mostly deserted. I flattened myself against the wall of an apartment courtyard and reached back for Chris.

  “Right behind you.”

  “Remind me again who the hostiles might be.”

  “ISIS, ISIL or Daesh—whatever you call them.” Chris moved ahead and scanned the bombed out floors of the building. “Al-Nusra, al-Qaeda, PKK, CIA. He glanced back and made eye contact. “Then there’s the Spersnaz—Russian Special Forces—they fire first and ask questions later.”

  “Some of our own forces are hostiles?”

  Chris made a point of making eye contact. “Never trust the CIA. You’re just collateral damage to them.”

  I sighed. “Zombies are much less complicated.”

  A loud crack of thunder sent us scurrying for cover as the storm finally let loose. We squeezed into a protected niche on the side of a building.

  Chris backed into the narrow shelter and pulled me in close. So close, my booty rubbed up against a rock hard erection. “I want you again. In fact I want you now,” he whispered.

  I leaned against his chest. “Stop it, you’re distracting me.” I squinted through the rain.

  Snaking an arm around me, he unbuttoned my fatigues. “It’s pouring. Give it a few minutes, the rain will let up.” Before I could protest he pushed down my pants and slipped in a finger. And I would give him this, he knew his way around a clitoris. I went from zero to one hundred percent aroused in seconds.

  His other hand swept the back of my underwear. “Mind if I pull these down and fuck you in the ass?”

  “I mind.”

  His magical finger circled my clit like a pro. “You don’t like anal?”

  “No girl in her right mind likes anal.” I reached behind me and removed his hand, which he promptly moved under my T-shirt. “All that porn has made your dick stupid.”

  His chuckle warmed the back of my neck. “I’ll go slow—as slow as you want until it feels so good you’ll want it deep.” He held me against him and rubbed my ass.

  “With that big thick poker? I don’t think so baby.” I gasped, barely able to make coherent speech. The man was some kind of sexual savant. I knew this because I was rapidly closing in on an orgasm. “Guys with small dicks get anal—end of story.”

  “Beyond a friendly ass slap or two…” His fingers moved into my vagina, while his thumb slipped and slid over my clit. “…I would never hurt you, Lizzy.” His other hand rolled a nipple into hard flesh.

  My belly fluttered with massive, greedy desire. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.” He pinched the tip and arousal shot through my body. “Oh God, yes-s-s—” I leaned into him and let the wave of
pleasure swell, then crash through me.

  I barely knew Chris Oakley, but already I had experienced a couple of interesting sides to the man. There was the dispassionate, special ops army ranger, and the wicked-hot lover boy with his cuddle-up-to-me-baby cute side. “I’ve got you, Lizzy.” He held on while my body trembled from aftershocks.

  I leaned back into his warmth and strength. “I couldn’t find my bra this morning.”

  “I prefer you braless.”

  I stepped away from of the niche, and his hands slipped out from under my clothing. “What did you do with my bra?” I zipped up my pants and stared at him.

  He grinned. “You don’t need a bra, you have great tits.” As my gaze narrowed, his eyes flicked upward. “Why do you think I know where your bra is?”

  I moved back into the shelter and faced him, helmet to helmet. He annoyed me and aroused me. And I was pretty sure he had something to do with my missing sports bra. I reached between his legs and cupped his balls. “Where is it?”

  That grin just didn’t quit. “You have my permission to search.”

  Chapter Six

  IN WARFARE, THINGS move excruciatingly slow and break super fast at the same time. Enemy rounds come in at bullet speed, while the action happens in flying ninja movie slow motion. One minute I’m in the throes of orgasm, the next there’s a faint displacement of air as small projectiles hit the wall behind me. Concrete dust breaks loose and sprays my cheek. The sounds of the firefight—the jackhammer rat-a-tat-tats—come last, a reminder that I’m still alive.

  Chris pushed me behind several large metal drums and returned fire. “There’s a carpet shop two doors down.” He nodded toward an older model Mercedes. “Get to the car first. I’ll cover you.”

  The second his gun was up, he let loose a barrage of fire. Bullets whizzed around me, but I made it to the vehicle.

  Chris slid in behind me. “Twenty-five feet—stay low, Lizzy.”

  He rose and fired a few shots. “Go!”

  I ran toward the open door and found cover near the entrance. Chris was pinned down, so I unloaded my pistol into the rubble across the street. He literally ran backwards as he fired, tossing himself inside the shop.

  We made eye contact, relieved to see each other. “You okay?” I asked.

  Still on his back, he reached inside his jacket for a magazine. “I’m good—you?”

  I nodded. “Who are these guys?”

  Back on his feet, Chris positioned me behind him. “Smart zombies, maybe. Or live combatants.”

  “Smart zombies?” I nearly choked.

  “Hybrid-prototypes designed to devour anything in their way, living or undead.” He glanced back. “Like smartphones only with arms and legs sometimes.”

  My brain felt like it might implode. “Sometimes?”

  “Sometimes they have arms and legs.” His mouth twitched.

  I stared at him. “Are you fucking making zombie jokes?”

  Those sparkly blue eyes could be irritating at times, but they were also sparkly.

  He checked the street and straightened.

  “What?” I peeked around his shoulder. Rain had turned the road to mud. I counted four—no, five pairs of boots. Soldiers dressed in fatigues but no helmets. They all wore the combat version of the keffiyeh scarf.

  Chris spoke softly. “How’s your French?”

  I followed his gaze back out to the street. “Three years in high school and a semester as an exchange student in Paris.”

  “Better than mine.”

  “How do you know they’re French?”

  “The arm patches are French Special Forces. If I’m right, these guys are French soldiers of Arab descent. Special ops infiltrators—Shabiha—aka badass motherfuckers.” He handed me the M4.

  “Watch my back.” He raised his hands and stepped into the road. “Chris Oakley. Captain, United States Army Echo Company 160th SOAR.”

  One of the men came forward. “Lieutenant Ahmed Mahabub, Armée Française Ahmed Marines ALAT Operations Speciales.”

  When Chris eyeballed the others, the leader of the commandos introduced his men. “Mustafa, Akam, Hamza, Abu Abdullah.” The lieutenant tipped his head toward the shop.“Et, la jeune femme?”

  Chris gave me the nod.

  I tucked his rifle under my arm and joined the soldiers.

  “Médecin Elizabeth Davis.” He introduced me as the only survivor of Zaatari Refugee Camp. His French was halting, but his accent was perfect.

  I nodded to the men. “Bonjour, c’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer.”

  “Elle est une médecin?” Ahmed turned to me. “You are a doctor?”

  I smiled. “You speak English?”

  Fierce-eyed and swarthy, the lieutenant was intimidating, and yet there was something akin to wisdom in those espresso-colored eyes. “Not so good, but, please—I need the practice.” He spoke in a low voice to one of his men. Something about an injury. “This man—he is Peshmerga—a Kurd.”

  I stepped closer for a better look. The soldier couldn’t raise his left arm. “His shoulder is dislocated.”

  A cloud burst overhead and we moved into the shelter of a nearby shop. “You’ll need to remove his shirt and jacket. Start with his good arm first—that’s right.”

  I approached the injured man. “May I touch you?”

  The soldier appeared wary.

  “What is your name?” I asked as I palpitated the mushy dent where the head of his humerus bone should be.

  Ahmed translated in Arabic. “His name is Akam. He says the bone keeps…popping.”

  “Do you need me to hold him?” Chris asked.

  I shook my head. “I use a simple procedure I learned from an Aussie ortho guy.”

  The Kurdish soldier appeared apprehensive, so I turned to Ahmed. “Please tell Akam he must sit up straight and try to relax. If anything hurts during the procedure, he should tell us.”

  Ahmed dutifully repeated all of my instructions in Arabic.

  I knelt beside the man and held his injured arm close to his body. Keeping the elbow flexed at ninety degrees, I applied gentle downward traction.

  With my free hand, I massaged the trapezius, deltoid and bicep muscles sequentially, repeating the process and concentrating on the biceps brachii until all the muscles began to relax.

  The men watched in fascination as the bump in his shoulder disappeared. The humeral head had moved back into place. I smiled up at the man. “Does that feel better?” I gently moved his arm, testing his range of motion.

  Chris grinned. “She’s my doctor.” His comment sounded cute in French, and several commandos actually smiled.

  I dug in my jacket pocket and found a few packets of naproxen. “These will help reduce the soreness and swelling.” I handed the man the pills and gave him a drink of water. “I need to make a sling.”

  The soldier called Hamza found a traditional robe in a shop drawer. While I ripped into the fabric, the lieutenant asked Chris about incoming hordes.

  “A large one is headed this way.” Chris pointed in the general direction. “We’ve got maybe five or six hours.”

  “There is no one left in Ruwayshid,” Ahmed offered. “A few biters and a man who calls himself Ivan Ivanovich. He tapped his temple with an index finger. “Fou dans la tête—he thinks he’s a zombie warlord.”

  Chris pressed Ahmed for intel on K1.

  As far as these guys knew, the airbase was still open, but no one had any idea about flights in and out. They also assured us that there were several ways to cross the DMZ and gave us a few tips on drone avoidance.

  “Any idea where we might find some petrol?” Chris asked.

  Ahmed’s eyes narrowed. “Where is your vehicle?”

  “Where’s yours?” Chris answered, purposely evasive.

  One of his men pulled the lieutenant over and spoke in a barely audible tone. “The rain is less, we must go.” He turned to me. “We are in your debt, Médecin Elizabeth Davis.”

  I tied the slin
g under the soldier’s flack jacket. “Tell him he must keep the arm stationary.”

  My patient spoke without looking directly at me.

  “Akam asks how he can repay you.” The lieutenant translated.

  “Tell him to not let anyone mutilate his daughter’s genitals.”

  Ahmed stared at me with fierce eyes. Too late to take it back now, all I could do is shrug. “That is…if he ever marries and has children, which…isn’t likely given our situation.”

  At this point I’m backing away, convinced the leader of the Arab-French commando squad is going to fatwa my ass.

  Chris moved up beside me.

  For a few seconds the atmosphere grew downright chilly, then Ahmed turned and barked a few orders to his men. Call it a momentary death wish, but a part of me wished he’d translated my request.

  After a good deal of head bowing and air kissing, the French combatants moved into the street. Chris and I watched them head out of town.

  Ahmed turned back. “Ask Ivan about petrol.”

  “And where do we find Ivan?” Chris asked.

  “You don’t find Ivan—he finds you.”

  Chris and I headed in the opposite direction, less worried about zombies or hostile combatants. According to Ahmed, Ruwayshid was a ghost town.

  “So you’re a surgeon and a human rights agitator.” Icy blue eyes flashed my way.

  “Sorry—it just came out.”

  Chris stopped dead in his tracks. “I don’t mind that you said it—just—give me a little warning next time.” He eyeballed me hard. “In case we have to shoot our way out of a situation.”

  As we neared the city center, the sun broke from behind the clouds. Beams of light bounced off puddles in the street. Chris stopped at a gate that opened onto a private compound.

  I studied the imposing edifice behind the wall. “If this was Amman, I’d guess embassy or luxury hotel, or—”

  “Or zombie warlord residence.” Chris finished my thought.

  We walked up the drive, eyes peeled for any signs of life or movement.

  He studied every broken window in the building. “We check the outside first—stay close.” We walked the perimeter, and had nearly circled the compound when we came across a huge blast hole in the ground. Chris peered over the edge. “Looks like an underground parking structure.”