She really wished she had the machete.
When she reached the shed, she paused with her hand on the door. The banging was clear. There was somebody, or something in the shed.
She took her hand from the door and looked around for a weapon—a stick, a rock anything…
There was nothing in sight but a deflated soccer ball.
She put her hand on the handle again and prepared to run.
Another thump.
“Hello,” she called, tentatively.
No reply.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
A blur of movement came at her face and she dropped to the ground, covering her head. Her heart pounded in her chest. After several seconds, she realized she was not being ravaged by the undead and she opened her eyes.
A black and white cat sat on the grass a foot from her head. He looked at her, slowly blinked his eyes, shook his head and walked away as if there were no problem.
“Jesus…” Angel said, standing up and brushing herself off.
More movement, but of a slower variety, caught her attention.
The five zombies from the road were in the yard now, less than fifty feet away. She was about thirty feet from the retaining wall. Hopefully, there would be a place to hide in the restaurant.
She hopped up and trotted to the back of the yard. The drop to the parking lot was about five feet. Although she knew she could make it without a problem. she walked along the wall to a spot where a tired looking Mitsubishi was parked against it. She stepped down onto the hood of the car and then to the ground. As she began to walk away toward the restaurant, she glanced inside the car.
Dangling from the ignition was a ring of keys.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Thank you.”
She lifted the door handle.
Locked.
“Are you serious?” she yelled, alerting the zombies to her new position.
The zombies turned in her direction and began moving toward her. She needed to get into the car—fast. A quick survey of the ground offered nothing useful.
“Damn it,” she said.
She stepped back from the car and lifted her foot. Closing her eyes, she slammed her foot into the window, shattering it. After glancing at the zombies, who were about forty feet away, she opened the door and slid into the car, ignoring the shards of glass on the seat, and turned the key.
The engine turned over, but refused to fire. She turned the key back, pumped the gas and tried again. The engine, turned and coughed, but still didn’t start.
The zombies were twenty feet away.
She tried the key one more time.
The engine turned over slowly, and then the battery died. She turned the key several times in rapid succession.
Nothing.
The zombies were ten feet away. One of them fell off the wall and landed on the ground, to her right, with a thud. It climbed to its feet and shuffled toward her.
She shot out of the car and ran toward the restaurant. Halfway to the building, she heard a sound.
Distant, but there.
“Oh my God,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”
She sprinted toward A1A, waving her arms and screaming even before she saw the motorcycle come over the Matanzas Inlet bridge.
“Please,” she yelled. “Please, help me.”
She ran up the incline to the road as the motorcycle pulled to a stop fifty feet away. A large man with a long pony tail stepped off the motorcycle and drew a pistol from his belt.
“Please, help me. Please, help me,” Angel yelled as she reached him.
The biker dragged her by the hand to the concrete wall at the edge of the bridge and they ducked down. He scanned the parking lot for whatever was chasing her.
With no signs of pursuit, the man turned to her and held her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“Okay,” he said as calmly as possible. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. Take it easy.”
Angel collected herself and looked at him in disbelief. Was he real? Was she finally safe? The man was amazingly calm and projected a strength that she could feel even at arm’s distance away. He looked into her eyes.
“My name is Ike,” he said. “What’s your name?”
Some dark serendipity plopped a young Patrick C. Greene in front of a series of ever stranger films-and experiences-in his formative years, leading to a unique viewpoint. His odd interests have led to pursuits in film acting, paranormal investigation, martial arts, quantum physics, bizarre folklore and eastern philosophy. These elements flavor his screenplays and fiction works, often leading to strange and unexpected detours designed to keep viewers and readers on their toes. In addition to his novel PROGENY, and the short story collection DARK DESTINIES, Greene has several FILM projects in the works, and just finished writing his second novel – THE CRIMSON CALLING -the first in the action-adventure vampire trilogy, The Sanguinarian Council.
Frank Edler spends his days in New Jersey attempting to write. His short stories have appeared in Tim Baker's UNFINISHED BUSINESS as well as the STRANGE VERSUS LOVECRAFT and STRANGE FUCKING STORIES anthologies. He is co-host of the wildly popular Books, Beer and Bullshit Podcast. His antics can be heard at http://booksbeerbullshit.podbean.com or read at http://booksbeerblogshit.blogspot.com
Sean Slagle has been published in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and drama. A Dirge for the Malice, his first published novel, was released in October. You can learn more about him and his writing at www.thedirge.com. The novel is available in paperback and for the Kindle at Amazon.com. You can also follow him on Facebook and Twitter.
Armand Rosamilia is a New Jersey boy currently living in sunny Florida. He is the author of the wildly popular Dying Days series (you really need to read the rest of them. Trust me.) He is also co-host of the Friday Night Writes show on the radio (it's not a podcast. Trust me.). Send him messages and pictures of midgets. http://armandrosamilia.com
Jaime Johnesee worked as a zookeeper for fourteen years before deciding to focus on her passion of writing. Her decision has proven to be a good one, as her books have been received with critical acclaim, including Oh The Horror and Shifters, which was recognized as one of the best horror novellas of 2012. Although her initial foray into the literary world has been marked by success, Jaime has just begun and is a force to be reckoned with in the years to come.
A. D. Roland lives in central Florida. She currently works as a surgical technologist to pay for the excessive costs of raising a horde of felines and a couple of children. Her published works include the horror novels Winterborn, Swamp Baby, and coming soon, the dark fantasy Dark Consort. She is also a successful cover artist. Her blog is located at www.ashsartanddesign.wordpress.com.
Brent Abell resides in Southern Indiana with his wife, sons, and a pug who likes to eat zombie fingers for snackies. He works full time, but has found time to have over twenty tales published from multiple presses and eZines.In Memoriam,his debut novella was released in October 2012 from Rymfire Books and is currently out of print. His first full novel is currently being edited and he is hard at work on another one to appease the masses. You can hang out with him for some rum, a cigar, and all the latest news at http://brentabell.wordpress.com.
Mark Tufo was born in Boston Massachusetts. He attended UMASS Amherst where he obtained a BA (and an advanced degree in partyology) and later joined the US Marine Corps. He was stationed in Parris Island SC, Twenty Nine Palms CA and Kaneohe Bay Hawaii. After his tour he went into the Human Resources field with a worldwide financial institution, after beginning his climb up the corporate ladder he found himself laid off. His wife, Tracy who was desperate to keep him out of her hair dared him to write a book, and the Zombie Fallout series was born. www.marktufo.com
Rhode Island native Tim Baker released his first novel, Living the Dream, in August, 2009 and has followed up with 5 others since then. Tim writes fast-paced, off-beat crime stories full of colorful characters and loaded with unexpected
and often humorous twists and turns, set in Flagler Beach and St. Augustine, Florida. You can learn more about Tim’s work and how to contact him on his website at www.blindoggbooks.com.
Dying Days: The Siege of European Village
Tim Baker: [email protected] and www.blindoggbooks.com
Armand Rosamilia: [email protected] and http://armandrosamilia.com
Dying Days: The Siege of European Village
Author's Notes
Water Hazard by Tim Baker (sample)
Dying Days by Armand Rosamilia (sample)
Dying Days: Siege 2
Dying Days: Man-Child
Dying Days: Jerry Masiello
Authors Interview with BB&BS
Pump It Up by Tim Baker (sample)
Dying Days: Origins by Armand Rosamilia (sample)
Special Thanks
Tim would like to thank Armand for pitching the idea for this book and Ky Ekinci for his encouragement and help with all things marketing. Also – all of the great people at European Village for being good sports as well as the folks who volunteered to have their names used, knowing they would probably end up being eaten by zombies! Thanks to Jenny for reminding me about commas. And finally my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Fortes, Sandra Bullock and Led Zeppelin – just because.
Armand would like to thank Tim for being as enthusiastic about this story as I was, and for jumping in and playing in my zombie world without pause. To European Village for the great place to hang out, eat, drink and survive the upcoming zombie apocalypse. To everyone who buys our books, and wanted to be in this story… if we missed you, maybe you'll be eaten in a sequel. Special special thanks to Jenny for the tight editing (Tim and his damn comma problems), my Creative Writing teacher, Ms. Stansky, Alyssa Milano and Slayer – just because Tim did.
Dying Days
The Siege of European Village
Armand Rosamilia and Tim Baker
Darlene
Darlene Bobich, wishing she had a nice pair of sunglasses, shielded her eyes with a hand as she swung the baseball bat and felt it connect with the face of the dead man. When he tumbled backward, landing on the ground and thrashing, she finished him off by bashing his rotting brains in.
"I think he's dead," John Murphy said behind her.
"Technically, he was already dead." Darlene smiled. "Where to now?"
A1A was deserted and this stretch had trees on either side, the grass long and unkempt. They'd just passed a torched Publix and a bank, and there was nothing left to salvage. Up ahead was an overpass.
John carried his compound bow, a bag of arrows slung over his shoulder, and his machete dangling in the loop at his waist. He pointed at the overpass. "I think it leads over to Palm Coast. We should use it to get over the Intracoastal. Maybe the area hasn't been picked clean yet."
The farther they scavenged from St. Augustine, the fewer needful things they found. Darlene wiped the sweat from her exposed, eternally burnt arms. She liked Maine weather so much more. "Should we go back for the SUV?"
John looked back down the desolate road. “I’m not walking back two miles in this heat.”
“Always a gentleman,” Darlene said. “You can’t expect me to hoof it by myself. I’m a girl. I’m fragile.”
John snorted. “Fragile is not a word I would use to describe you.”
Darlene swung the bat in a mock threat. “What are you trying to say, Murphy?”
He just smiled. “If we get over the bridge and there’s nothing to see, and the road is clear, I’ll get the SUV.”
“That sounds fair.”
“Of course it does, to you. You don’t have to walk it back.”
“But then I’ll miss your stunning conversation. What will I do in the meantime?” Darlene asked. “Actually, if there isn’t anything amazing over the bridge, I think we might need to turn it around and get back home.”
“You called it home.”
“It’s easier saying home than the stilt house I currently reside in, just south of the Matanzas Inlet, overlooking the gorgeous Atlantic Ocean. Gorgeous when dead bodies and zombies aren’t being washed up on the beach, that is.”
John smiled. “It does make sense. Let’s move out.”
They followed the signs for I-95, coming around a bend in the road where a car had been abandoned and torched months ago. The grass and bushes to either side were beginning to push into the street, growing between cracks.
It won't be long before most of these roads are overgrown and nature takes them back, Darlene thought. She marveled at how quickly everything man-made broke down when there was no one to fix it and no constant maintenance. Even though only months had passed - or could they count it in years now? - it looked like it had been a decade with all the rust, weeds and destruction.
They stopped at a crossroads. Before them was a torched area, with only sporadic grass poking from the ruins, and the faint smell of charred wood lingered in the air. To their left looked like a development, the security fence breached and warped in several spots.
"To the bridge," John said and nodded at Darlene. "Do you want my bow?"
"I'll tell you where to put your bow," Darlene said. She'd tried and failed miserably when John had tried to teach her to use it. While he was a near-perfect shot, she had yet to kill anything with it. Heck, she barely managed to hit a zombie at all.
Darlene shook her baseball bat and patted her machete. "I think I'm set. I like to get up close and personal with them." She grinned. "Using long range weapons is so cheating and unmanly."
"I'd rather you called me a girl and I'm still alive. Trust me."
The bridge was relatively clear of debris, with a makeshift fence, long since breached, before them. They walked up the bridge, and Darlene loved the view despite the heat and the danger of being trapped. They were always in danger, though.
"What if we find something useful?" she asked quietly as they moved up the steady incline of the road.
"You go back and get the SUV," John said over his shoulder.
John moved to his right and Darlene followed as they walked. They looked out over a sprawling network of destroyed condominiums, the waterway beneath them choked with floating debris. There were no fires and no smoke. Whatever came through and purged this area (whether zombies, looters or both) had come and gone.
They got to the top of the bridge and crossed back over to the left side.
"It's still intact," John said.
"And occupied," Darlene said as she pulled him back and away from the side. "There are two men in sight with rifles."
"Is it an apartment building?" John asked.
"Not sure." Darlene stooped down and went back to the side for another look. The building itself was massive, with four stories and set in a triangular pattern, three different buildings connected by catwalks and ramps. "It looks like shops on the bottom floor and apartments on levels two to four."
"Almost like a small city. The sign says European Village. Looks like a nice place to spend an afternoon. Except for the guys with rifles. Oh, and the zombies."
"This side is gated and I'm sure every other entrance is blocked as well. It looks like a great setup for whoever is living there."
"The problem for us is they've most likely looted the area for miles around."
Darlene snickered. "When we are out, we're scavenging. When others do it you call it looting."
"Exactly." John sat down on the hot pavement. "What do you think?"
"I think we're wasting our time here. Going into Palm Coast will end up being a bust. We need to get back on A1A and find another neighborhood."
"Where? Everything out there has been picked clean already. Even the extra supplies we couldn't carry and left at the Golden Lion on previous forays have been moved."
"Did you say foray? Really?"
"Shut up." John's smiled faded. "We have company."
Two zombies, both older men, were shuffling slowly and silently toward them, dead eyes locked onto John and D
arlene.
Darlene pulled her machete out and marveled at the gore covering it. She didn't even bother to clean her weapons much anymore, since they were always running into trouble and hacking the heads off dead people. Funny how a zombie apocalypse can raise the bar on what you find socially acceptable.
She knew the trick was going to be dispatching the zombie without getting shot by the two riflemen watching the bridge. If she stood, she'd be screwed. Darlene decided to chop at their knees and drop them to the pavement. That sounded like a plan.
John had his machete ready, squatting at her side, as the two approached.
The nearest one bumped against the road barrier, drooling dark blood from a multitude of open sores and cuts.
And then his head exploded with a wet sucking noise, brains and mush flopping into the air before splashing to the ground.
Darlene closed her eyes and forced the puke back down her throat. You never get used to this, even after all this time, she thought.
Still holding back the vomit and the stinging tears in her shut eyes, she heard the second shot and the second body hit the ground.
"Wow," John was saying next to her, back against the barrier and out of sight. "Are you okay?"
Darlene opened her eyes and wiped her tears, giving John a smile. "Just another day on the job. This still beats selling makeup in Maine, though."
"Does it?"
She sighed. "Not really. I'd give anything for minimum wage, a shitty boss yelling at me, and an actual coffee break."
"I'd be out on patrol, shooting bad guys and bank robbers, making the Florida Panhandle safe for the common man," John said.
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