Copyright © 2017 Paul Carberry
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS, ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL, INCLUDING PHOTOCOPYING AND RECORDING, OR BY ANY INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEM WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR, EXCEPT FOR BRIEF PASSAGES QUOTED IN A REVIEW.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Distributed by:
Engen Books
www.engenbooks.com
[email protected]
First mass market paperback printing: December 2017
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-926903-67-5
Table of Contents
ZOMBIES ON THE ROCK BOOK 2: THE VIKING TRAIL by PAUL CARBERRY
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE: DEAD CITY
CHAPTER TWO: OVERRUN
CHAPTER THREE: RECOVERY
CHAPTER FOUR: LEFT TO DIE
CHAPTER FIVE: ABANDONED PAPER MILL
CHAPTER SIX: GUN FIGHT
CHAPTER SEVEN: OUT OF THE WATER
CHAPTER EIGHT: BROKEN GLASS
CHAPTER NINE: VIKING
CHAPTER TEN: SNOW
CHAPTER ELEVEN: WARRANT SMITH
CHAPTER TWELVE: SACRIFICE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: FATEFUL RESCUE
CHAPTER FORTEEN: HYSTERIA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: COLD HARD STEELE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: DEVILISH PLANS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE DOCTOR
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ARMY BASE
CHAPTER NINETEEN: BLIZZARD
CHAPTER TWENTY: UNRELENTING PURSUIT
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: BLIND LUCK
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: DAWN
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SEPERATE WAYS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: HOWLEY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: LANX AUX MEADOWS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: GRAND FALLS
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: THE SET UP
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: DECEPTION
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: A BRAND NEW WORLD
CHAPTER THIRTY: BREAKING APART
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: INVASION
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: FIGHT TO SURVIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: UNCERTAINTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: CRUEL DEATH
EPILOGUE
Bio: Paul Carberry
MORE TITLES FROM ENGEN BOOKS
ZOMBIES ON THE ROCK BOOK 2: THE VIKING TRAIL
by PAUL CARBERRY
Zombie hoards created by the evil Pharmakon company have taken over the world, including the one place that always thought it was safe from the calamities of the outside: the quiet, scenic shores of Newfoundland’s west coast. In this horrifying second volume, the island survivors of the zombie massacres believe they are safe, settled away in a cabin far off the grid: but nothing can stop the spread of the undead, as the zombies make their way to the historic Viking Trail, where even more terror awaits....
PROLOGUE
Boom
The zombies shambled towards the thunderous echo, drawn to the noise like ants to a picnic. The mindless creatures had forgotten everything else and worked as a team to surround their victims. "Eric, how are we going to get out of their way?" Jason was bent over at the waist, still out of breath.
"I'm not planning on getting out of the way." Eric holstered his Glock and gripped the heavy fire axe in both hands.
"What the hell is going on?" Nick had joined the circle.
"You're fucking nuts." Jason laughed, reaching behind his back and taking out the short sword he had taken from Craig’s house. "You ready to do this?" Giving Nick a pat on the shoulder, Jason pointed the metal bat in Nicks hand.
"Shit." Nick looked around, and quickly realized what Eric had planned.
A horde of zombies were closing in on them from every direction, Eric counted at least forty of the evil creatures salivating at the prospect of fresh flesh. The three men closed into a circle, back to back with each other, each man with their various weapon ready to strike. The foul smelling creatures staggered slowly towards them, and Eric made sure the safety was off on his revolver. The first zombie that entered striking range was a ragged looking, decrepit creature. Its white hair was thin and clung to its face, the skin was wrinkled and falling off in hunks, and sore patches covered its body. The frail limbs barely managed to carry the monster forward while its pants were soaked and so tight they restricted the cadaver’s movement. Eric rushed towards the zombie and swung the axe in a sideways motion -- the top half of the creature’s skull went flying through the air as the blade sliced through the brittle bone.
Jason lunged forward with the ancient blade in his hand, cleaving a male zombie’s head clean off. The headless corpse shivered violently and miraculously took another step before crashing to the ground, the monster’s jaw continuing to snap relentlessly even though it had become detached from its body. "Slimy bastard." Jason stomped the skull with a crushing stomp, caving it in.
Nick used an uppercut swing to demolish the next zombie’s jaw, the creature’s teeth flew through the air in a mixture of blood and spit. The cadaver fell backwards and Nick finished off the ghoul with a bone-shattering blow.
The three men fell back and reformed their defensive circle, making sure nothing got inside their huddle. Zombies moaned hoarsely for their fallen comrades; the horde was growing larger and more dangerous. Seven zombies had lurched into striking distance. A butcher’s knife was sticking out of the stomach of a female zombie, the blade was covered in gore and the handle jiggled with every step. It was probably the efforts of some poor soul who didn't posses the knowledge to destroy the foul creature’s brain.
Two more female zombies wearing white tank tops covered in muck and gore approached, their outreached arms covered in black soot. Their skin was badly burned, covered in bloody blisters and charred flesh. A male wearing pyjama bottoms had been asleep when he turned. His stomach cavity was void of any internal organs, and his spine could be seen through the imbrued mess.
Nick darted forward towards the zombie on the left and sent it tumbling backwards over an old stump. Then Nick squared his body and swung wildly into the face of the female on the right -- a loud pop echoed through the woods as the metal bat crushed the skull bones. Jason joined the fray and wielded his short sword, thrusting towards the topless corpse and driving the pointed end into the foul being’s eye socket.
Three younger souls faced Eric as he drove the axe downwards at their outreached hands, slicing off several fingers and amputating one of the creature’s hands. Blood flowed out of the open wounds, a red mist staining Eric's pants. Swinging the axe sideways again, the blade deftly cleaved through the zombie’s skull and dug into the next undead brain. Unfortunately, the edge lodged into the brain and got snagged in the wound. The momentum of the falling body yanked the axe out of Eric's grip and a bloody stump clutched his shoulder, but Eric easily freed himself from the weak clutch. Kicking at the creature’s leg, Eric felt the leg bone splinter against the blow, sending the zombie tumbling to the grass. Driving his knee into the monster’s head, Eric could feel the head cave in underneath his body weight. Looking over towards the remaining zombie, Eric watched as Nick and Jason worked in unison to kill the dead man. Jason severed the leg with a powerful swing, and when the creature dropped to its knee, Nick teed off on the zombie’s head and used a home-run swing to demolish the skull. An explosion of brain matter and blood followed a loud pop immediately.
Nick and Jason ran over to Eric, reforming their defensive formation. They s
tarted to move back to the centre of the circle. "Eric, I don't know if this is going to work."
Andrew tossed the last empty cloth sack onto the old wooden carriage.
It had been three weeks since the dead began to rise and roam the earth and crave the taste of human flesh. The horrific dread and sheer terror of watching the unearthly abominations feast on people like him tore him from uneasy slumber most nights. During the first days he had been cowardly, but that fear quickly evaporated and his chance to combat the undead presented itself in the oddest location in the world with some of the strangest people he had ever had the pleasure of sharing his time with.
Before the turn, Andrew had been a method actor with a local group in Cow Head. He had played the part of a fisherman in the local production, but his new role would make him a legend in the history books.
The initial night of the outbreak remained with him like some ghoulish nightmare. In the beginning, the news reports sounded more like a sick joke than the truth. He remembered listening to the vivid details of a vicious attack moments before the performance, his fellow cast members gathered around him. Whispers quickly spread amongst the tight knit family of actors, mostly about why the atrocities were being committed by the insane mobs that must have been created by the instability of the government. Andrew could still hear his director saying, “The show must go on!”
What a stubborn, ignorant fool he had been.
The show had gone on, just not the one everyone came to see.
The crowd that gathered around the stage must have been twice the size of the community, people from all around assembled to see the new play. Town folk had brought chairs from home and set them in the grass field because the tiny production hadn't expected such a large turnout.
There was a trail that ran from the road to above the enclave where everyone waited for curtain. From behind the tree line, an old man had staggered into the grass field. People had ignored The Stranger, thinking he was just another drunken fool who had had one too many drinks.
He had been well dressed for the show that night in a grey suit paired with a floral tie resting on his purple satin dress shirt. Soil and grass stained his pants and jacket, and he had been so inebriated that he could hardly walk straight. Brown filth mixed with blood on his face that streamed from a broken nose, no doubt from one of his intoxicated stumbles. Beneath all of the filthy mess, his skin was ghastly white, covered in giant beads of sweat that rolled down his face soaking into his wrinkled collar.
Andrew would never forget how demonic the intruder's eyes looked when his dead gaze drifted over the sold-out crowd, with his bloodshot eyes darting back and forth and a gaping smirk showcasing blackened teeth, slimy white drool frothing from the corners of his jaw.
The Stranger’s wife stood up from her chair, brushing her white hair to the left with her frail hand, clearly embarrassed by her husband's strange behaviour. She walked over to scold him, but before she knew it, he was lunging straight for her jugular. His jagged teeth pierced the soft skin at the nape of her neck, and a gargled shriek alerted the audience of her agony. Strands of viscera dangled from The Stranger’s jaw while blood flowed like a river bursting through a damn over the woman's white dress. Startled by the attack and the crashing weight of her husband, the elderly lady dropped to her knees and her arms crossed her chest as she tried to cover the gash on her throat. The look on her face was shock -- not shock brought on by being attacked by a zombie, but a much deeper, personal offence. It was the shock that her husband was the perpetrator, the love of her life betraying their vows. He collapsed on top of her, ripping apart the dress, clawing into her chest with jagged nails and sharp teeth. Some concerned citizens had tried to intervene, but the old man was relentless, managing to chomp down on the limbs of her would-be saviours, tearing away chunks of flesh with every bite.
Blood, fear, chaos, and panic gripped the audience that had come to see a comedy. Andrew couldn't help but wonder how the review headline would read: a dark, disturbing attempt at comedy that nobody would enjoy!
People scampered away in all different directions, pushing down anyone that got in their way, desperately climbing into their vehicles to race away in a mad dash. It was sheer and utter chaos. Everyone was racing out of town and towards Deer Lake in hopes of finding medical attention or the nearest police officer. Engines rumbled and tires spun out, sending gravel and rocks flicking into the crowd.
Andrew sprinted away as fast as he could, determined to avoid the cadaverous gaze of those flesh-hungry freaks. A deep, primal instinct to live kicked in and Andrew fled in the opposite direction towards St. Anthony. A powerful force drove him; a strong need to survive kept pushing him further down the Viking Trail. He ran until every muscle in his legs ached and his lungs burned as he gasped for breath. Once he couldn't run any further he forced himself to walk. He walked until he was completely exhausted, and then slid down into the ditch and collapsed in a heap until he could force himself back to his feet. The nights were too cold to stop moving, and so in a steady, ongoing motion, Andrew managed to keep churning his legs for three days before he couldn't muster another step. Every time a car passed, he would hide along the side of the road in the deep bush, not wanting to be seen. Some instinct said that everyone was going in the wrong direction; something deep inside told him to stay away from the larger populations.
The Viking Trail was surrounded by tall pine trees, dangerous bogs, large mountains and vast lakes on all sides. Only a handful of scattered, rundown shacks could be found on the long, barren stretch of highway. It was beautiful in a way. Andrew would drink as much water as he needed from the streams and rivers he passed. His theatre costume offered very little warmth, but it was good at keeping him dry. The large yellow rain coat and the blue coveralls kept him dry from the occasional rain showers, and when the rain got too heavy, the forest provided adequate shelter. At some point, he managed to find a patch of blueberry bushes along the road; although they were past their prime, he forced the sour berries into his belly. His stomach rumbled, the half rotten berries wrecking havoc on his insides. Vomit rose into the back of his throat, leaving an even worse taste in his mouth then the spoiled berries.
That was a bad day.
His feet ached and felt like they had been broken in half. His leg muscles were stiff, throbbing with extreme exhaustion, making every step a chore. His back suffered with pounding pain, his shoulder blades dug into flesh, and his neck muscles were a bundle of throbbing nerves.
Finally he collapsed to the ground, completely exhausted. He disintegrated into a heap in the middle of the asphalt road, completely vulnerable to anything that stumbled across him. Andrew closed his eyes and he drifted away. His body had succumbed to the numbness; he lay there expecting to die. He waited for one of those flesh-hungry bastards to indulge on his gaunt corpse.
When his eyes finally opened again, he found himself staring up at the moon and stars, their white twinkle a sharp contrast to the pitch-black sky. His body was rocking back and forth on a bed of hay, the straw crunching underneath his weight. Looking around, all he could see were large wooden crates, kegs, and old cloth sacks stuffed full, threatening to burst open at the seam. He tried to scream, but his throat was too dry and all he managed was a choked, raspy cry. The rhythmic clip clap of horse hooves trotting against the pavement drowned out his muffled whimper. Andrew felt his heavy eyelids close no matter how hard he tried to fight it. He was unable to keep them open anymore, and so Andrew drifted heedlessly back into oblivion to await the grim reaper to carry him to his eternal rest.
When his eyes finally opened again, the dull hue of the yellow flames flickering from countless candles cast ominous shadows over him. Weathered grey wooden boards with large knots lined the walls, while the ceiling was made from hardened clay and dried grass. Allowing his head to fall to the side, he realized he was lying on the bare earth. The soil was black and hard as a rock, purposely hardened over time. A long shelf ran the length of the wall,
with various unidentifiable handcrafted items littering the ledge and threatening to fall off as the weight of the objects caused the shelf to dip forward.
"You're finally awake," a familiar voice echoed from somewhere behind him.
CHAPTER ONE:
DEAD CITY
Eric couldn't believe how barren Corner Brook was -- the streets had never been a bustling bundle of energy by any means, but he expected to see shambling corpses roaming aimlessly through the city. Instead, the city seemed completely deserted. Houses with missing doors and broken windows showcased the backdrop of the accelerated decline of society as it plunged itself into turmoil. Signs of homicidal rage littered family lawns; Eric wondered how much of this cruel violence was perpetrated by the undead and how much was committed by the living.
"What do you think is going on here?" Nick was maneuvering the ambulance between the deserted vehicles that had been hastily abandoned. They were merely some of the evidence of how unmitigated chaos and anarchy ruled the dead landscape. Mangled metal wrecks overshadowed the once peaceful asphalt. Fallen leaves tried to cover up the remnants of broken glass, but instead slaughtered bodies peeked through the layer of leaves and glass, hinting at the massacre that had taken place.
"I don't know." Eric looked out the window at the decaying, rotting leaves scattered over the lawns of the homes on West Valley Road. The trees are all but bare now. A few orange, red, and yellow leaves somehow managed to cling to life, holding onto the branches in a desperate attempt to stay alive.
"You know what I think is happening?" Jason sounded smug, like he had it all figured out.
"What's that?" Eric could only imagine what lunacy Jason had fabricated.
"The people who survived the initial outbreak have found a way to keep the zombies distracted." Jason leaned forward as he explained, "You know, like at the mall. That flashing light got them all gathered together like a flock of sheep. That would allow any survivors to easily move through the city virtually unnoticed."
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