Teaser: James Dean #WinterofZombie

This Dying World - James Dean - eBook wBlurb

This Dying World: The End Begins Teaser


When the dead began to move, our world changed forever.

No one was prepared for it.  Zombie enthusiasts across the globe had laid out their survival plans.  My brother and I played the “what if” game more often than I could count.  There was always that assurance in the back of our minds that it was just a fantasy.  It was impossible.  Dead is dead, there’s no coming back.

We were wrong.

News was spotty at best during the first few days.  But before the last of the broadcast signals winked out of existence, we learned what the infection was, for whatever good it did us.

We know what we need to know.  They are relentless.  If they catch us, they eat us.  If they bite us, we become one of them.  The bites are toxic, and always fatal.  The transformation happens within hours, minutes if the victim dies shortly after bitten.  Once their teeth break the skin, death is guaranteed.

It is airborne.  When someone dies, no matter the cause, they will reanimate unless precautions are taken.  In the very beginning, only the bitten would return.  Now though, any corpse that has not been embalmed, burned, or suffered brain trauma will come back.  We’re not sure how long it had been spreading, but there was no stopping the infection once the dead took their first steps.  It exploded across the globe in a matter of days.  Thinking back, we didn’t stand much of a chance.

We don’t know if they are alive or dead, or somewhere hellishly in between.  They do seem to decay, but it appears to happen much slower than a corpse that has the good sense to stay dead.  They never stop moving, even when there’s barely enough of them to hold their bones together.  We’re not sure if they digest what they eat, but I’ve seen enough of them without their guts to believe that they don’t.  That opens the window to another problem.  They will never starve to death.

They can take incredible damage and never slow.  Fortunate for us, the old zombie lore holds true.  Injure the brain and they stay down.  A bullet or some type of blunt force trauma seems to take these monsters out of the realm of the living.  Those who grapple with the moral dilemma of killing what looks like a human being do not survive long.

They are not human anymore.

My name is Daniel Foster, and this is my world now.  The planet is ruled by the undead.  My family and I survive day by day, constantly watching over our shoulders for the dead and those survivors who continue to prey upon the living.

But we are surviving…

You can find This Dying World: The End Begins by at these links:

Amazon Ebook, Paperback, and Audio:  http://www.amazon.com/This-Dying-World-End-Begins-ebook/dp/B00WW5LKPU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1441124038&sr=8-1&keywords=this+dying+world

Audible: http://www.audible.com/pd/Sci-Fi-Fantasy/This-Dying-World-Audiobook/B013CFEEGU/ref=a_search_c4_1_1_srTtl?qid=1441123814&sr=1-1

Barns & Noble (Nook) :  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/this-dying-world-james-dean/1122059503?ean=2940151949194

You can contact James here:


Facebook: www.facebook.com/jdean1975

Twitter: @jamesdeanauthor

Amazon Author page:  http://www.amazon.com/James-Dean/e/B00WW7Y6GI/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1



James Dean was born in Chicago, Illinois in 1975. He earned his Emergency Medical Technician license, serving for 3 years before returning to school to earn a AAS degree in electronics technology. He has worked in the technology field for 15 years and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future.  He currently lives in a suburb of Chicago with his wife and kids.

James has always been interested in writing, penning his first very short story in 4th grade. He’s written several short stories over the years, from horror to sword and sorcery genres. But he gave up writing for several years until he discovered the world of indie authors, thanks to people like Mark Tufo and Eric Shelman. James was once again bitten by the writing bug, which has led to his first full length novel, This Dying World: The End Begins.


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The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Rhonda Hopkins #WinterofZombie

Survival - Rhonda Hopkins



When Sarah escapes from her brutal abductors, she promises to return to rescue her twin sister, but with the walking dead invading Fort Worth, TX, she is forced to rely on a competitive coworker who made her work life hell for years. With her coworker weakened by cancer treatments, her sister still imprisoned, and zombies looking for an easy meal, Sarah’s only plan, if she can pull it off, is Survival.



Sarah Jamison’s gaze met her twin’s fear-filled blue eyes. “I—”

“It’s no use. The cuff is too tight. You’re going to have to leave me.” Dana put her free hand on Sarah’s, stilling their frantic motions.

“No. I won’t leave you. Maybe I can . . .” She turned, taking in the empty basement—the cement walls, exposed pipes, and her sister handcuffed to one of the metal cylinders. A small amount of light trickled in through the one lone window, but there was nothing she could use as a weapon. Unless . . . . She strode over to the dangling pipe from which she had managed to extricate herself earlier. Grabbing the unattached end, she tried wresting it clear of its fittings, her own wrist dangling handcuffs which clinked against the metal with each pull. Rust and time made it impossible to remove.


“No.” Tears ran down her face. “I can’t leave you, Dana.”

“You have to. It’s the only way we’re both getting out of here. You have to go for help.”  Sarah knelt beside her sister who reached out and wiped her thumb across her cheek, brushing the tears aside. “I’ll be okay until you get back. I won’t give them any excuse to throw me out to those . . . .” Dana choked back the word they had both been avoiding, choosing another instead, “creatures.”

Realizing there was no way she could take on all three kidnappers without a weapon, Sarah accepted she had to have help to save Dana. Hugging her sister, Sarah kissed her cheek. “I love you, Dana. Be strong. I’ll be back just as soon as possible.”

Heavy footsteps reverberated on the stairs. Dana pushed Sarah away. “Go now. Before it’s too late.”

Stretching upwards, she tried to raise the window, but it wouldn’t budge. She took off her T-shirt, wrapped her hand, and knocked out the glass, ducking as shards rained down on her. Pain shot through her palm all the way to her shoulder, but adrenaline fueled her and minimized the ache. She unwound the red fabric and smoothed it hurriedly across the sill.

The door crashed inward as one of the men who had captured them ran into the room. “What’s going on here?” He took in the situation and bee-lined for Sarah, grabbed her legs and pulled her down from the window. Grasping one arm, he backhanded her across the face. The edge of his ring ripped across her forehead; the pain almost blinding. Blood gushed from the wound.

She jerked away from him and took on the fighting stance she had been taught, feet set apart at shoulder width. Sarah grabbed the dangling cuff in her hand and put all her force in the punch to the man’s jaw. His head snapped backwards. Before he could react, she stepped back and struck out with her right foot, making contact with his left knee. The crunch of breaking bone and his scream told her she had done some major damage even before he fell to the floor. The other two kidnappers pounded down the stairs.

“Sarah! Go!” Dana screamed.

She grabbed the window sill and pulled herself upward and through the opening; glass slivers cutting her where the shirt didn’t cover. She yanked her legs through, turned and gave one last look at her sister and saw her mouth, “I love you.”



You can find SURVIVAL at:

Amazon Worldwide:  http://bookShow.me/B00KZT1WE4

Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/15186

KOBO:  http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/survival-episode-one

iTunes:  https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id889658597

Barnes & Noble:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/survival-rhonda-hopkins/1119842425

Scribd:  https://www.scribd.com/book/230421525/Survival-Survival-Series-1

Oyster: https://www.oysterbooks.com/book/5yRxiW2zTWu4GdQvit9DNT/survival

Rhonda Hopkins

Award-winning author, Rhonda Hopkins, has learned firsthand that truth is stranger than fiction. Her two decades of experience as an investigator provide her characters with a depth and realism that gives truth a run for its money. Having come in contact with the best and the worst that society has to offer, Rhonda’s imagination is filled with story ideas. Rhonda writes horror, suspense, paranormal, and YA urban fantasy. She is the author of the zombie apocalypse series, SURVIVAL, and the award-winning paranormal novella, THE CONSUMING. She also has a non-fiction book, NAVIGATING FAMILY COURT: IN THE BEST INTEREST OF YOUR CHILD, to assist those going through custody litigation.

You can connect with Rhonda at:

Website: http://rhondahopkins.com

Facebook:  http://facebook.com/RhondaHopkins.Author

Twitter:  http://twitter.com/Rhonda_Hopkins

Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/rhondahopkins

Google+:  https://www.google.com/+RhondaHopkins

Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/rhondarhopkins

Find more from Rhonda at Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Rhonda-Hopkins/e/B009KWDCCW

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The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Ricky Cooper #WinterofZombie



Davies watched through the scope of his rifle as Baker and the others were pushed towards the group waiting in the centre of the car park, their captors grabbing hold of their shoulders and forcing the four men to their knees. With a short motion of his hand, Davies sent Hamilton and Jones through the shifting shadows as he rose to a hunched crouch and made his way slowly forwards.


The illuminated sights of his optics settled on one of Broadhead’s captors. A smooth flick of his thumb set his weapon to automatic. He watched as the black-clad soldiers moved into position around Baker and the others.


His finger grazed the trigger; the need to open fire was stronger than anything he had ever felt in his ten years as a soldier. Grinding his teeth together, he watched as a cadaverous shape appeared behind Rawlings and Bolton. It moved between the black-clad troopers who were standing over the two kneeling soldiers like a pair of daemonic watchdogs.


He wanted nothing more in the world than to clamp his finger down on the trigger, unleashing a storm of death upon those who would cause his friends and family harm. But he knew that for all the good it would do, it would harm those he wished to save tenfold. In an agonising moment of visceral self-betrayal, he pulled his finger out from the trigger guard and watched the events unfold.


Baker stared with contempt and hatred at the man responsible for the deaths of many he had held dear.


The twisted, smirking visage of the blonde man was like a knife twisting in Baker’s very core. The molten seeds of rage burned deep in his soul. He shook and twisted his shoulders, his flesh tearing as he tore at the flex cuffs binding his hands behind him. The hot, coppery smell of his own blood wafted up from the wet floor beneath him as it poured from his ripped skin, soaking the sleeves of his jacket and pooling in the fingers of his gloves.


Motion in the corner of his eye distracted him from his own rage. He watched Kingsley rise, his movements almost feline as he sprang from his knees and launched himself forwards. A glimmer of wet, carbon-fibre-infused plastic ended Kingsley’s efforts as the stock of a weapon crashed into the base of his skull. Like a marionette with no strings, Kingsley slumped to the floor, blood seeping in a thin, diffused halo about his head as the flesh began to bleed.


‘Valiant effort, but alas it was too little too late; once again, Derek, you have fallen short of the last hurdle and failed as you always do.’


Ridgmont slowly stepped forwards, his face now lined and creased, no longer the pale young officer Baker had known twenty years before.


‘Why me? Why us? All we’ve ever done is our job. I can’t be held accountable for the actions of others. You know this isn’t the way an officer does things. Hiring killers… what, are you a coward?’


Ridgmont’s features contorted into a feral snarl as he reeled from the barbed words.


‘You have the gall to call me a coward? Me, the man who pulled you from the fires of hell itself. It is you who are the coward, sir, not me!’


He gesticulated wildly at Baker, the nickel-plated 9mil in his hand glinting in the cold moonlight.


‘Pulled me from the fires of hell? You were the one who sent me in there—me and the rest of Charlie Company! How many of your men died? How many of them begged you to send in armoured support while they were cut to ribbons in open ground? Men with families, men with mothers and fathers; sons and daughters.

‘Begging, all of them begging you for help while those around them died, including your own son. And you call me a coward; you’re the one who marched your men into the meat grinder, all for a handshake and a lump of tin.’


Ridgmont’s eyes went dark as he stepped back, reeling from Baker’s words as the bound and kneeling lieutenant carried on.


‘I was there. I saw him pulling his own men from the field through a hailstorm of lead. I watched as he took round after round and still pulled two of his command team to safety.


‘Do you know what he said to me as I sat there trying to stop him from bleeding out? Do you know what he said as his blood slipped through my fingers? “Tell my father I’m sorry.” His dying words, Ridgmont, were not some grandiose platitude or heroic statement; they were nothing more than an apology to the man who had sent him to his death.’


Baker glared. Ridgmont’s lips curled into a venom-filled smile as he stared into the eyes of hatred. Lifting his pistol, he weighed the implement of death, letting it float in his hand as he brought it to bear.


‘Thank you for sharing that with me. I appreciate the words but, alas, it changes nothing.’


He levelled the pistol at the back of Bolton’s head.


‘And here we have it, Derek, another man’s blood on your hands.’


Baker threw himself forwards, black gloved hands pulled at his combat suit, holding him down. He watched, his heart clenching as Ridgmont’s finger tightened on the trigger. Bolton looked up into Derek’s eyes sensing the sands of his life slipping through the hourglass and smiled.


‘Chief, kill this cunt for me.’


His left eye exploded. The 9mm hollow point destroying the left side of his head as it carved its path through his very being.

The echoing crack of the pistol rolled across the empty grounds around them as Bolton’s body slumped forwards into a puddle of brain and bone. Baker rocked on his knees as he watched the steaming pool of blood and brain matter slowly ooze forth.





*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Jaime Johnesee #WinterofZombie


Bob Meets Sam

Jaime Johnesee

“Hey, Griff! How’s it going?” I greeted my old friend as I walked into his bar.

Griffin Martin was a green man. He was also an expath but he only influenced people to prevent bar fights and other trouble inside his domain.

“Pretty good, man. How have you been?”

“Can’t complain.” I draped my jean jacket over the stool next to him.

“You expecting company?” The green man nodded at my jacket.

“Oh, yeah, Sam’s meeting me here.”

“Really? Haven’t seen her in a while. How has she been?”

“Pretty good.” I looked at the time on my cellphone and frowned, “She should be here soon.”

“Can I get you something while you wait?”

“Nah, that’s okay. I’ll wait. I will take change for this fiver, please. I want to play a couple songs on the jukebox.” I handed Griffin a five dollar bill and received my change, then I walked over to the old Wurlitzer and dropped all the quarters in. I started picking out songs from the surprisingly decent lineup that Griff kindly changed out often.

AC/DC’s ‘Big Gun’ blared out over the speakers and a grin spread over my decomposing face as I strode to the dance floor and began jumping around and singing along.

Griffin chuckled at me, shook his head, and picked up a clipboard to continue the inventory he’d been doing when I walked in.

I proudly sang along as I danced and soon I was head bobbing and pointing my finger disco-style, as you’re wont to do while dancing with abandon. The other patrons watched me with smiles on their faces. Every time I pointed my finger their way they ducked a little.

See, I was well known in Martin’s Bar. Folks here knew that parts of me have a habit of disengaging from the others. People have actually started to come to the bar just to watch it happen.

As Creedence Clearwater Revival’s ‘Fortunate Son’ replaced AC/DC, my dancing slowed. I did my best to continue making the patrons smile as I did the sprinkler to the CCR hit. I love to dance.

Griffin chuckled again, one eye on me and one on the liquor as he continued his inventory while stopping occasionally to watch one bad ass zombie get down –that’d be me, by the way. It was during a particularly aggressive disco point to the door that my hand flew off and toward the entrance.

A lithe woman with olive skin and dark hair caught the hand midair and smiled, “Damn, Bob, you could’ve given me a hug instead of a flying high five.”

“Hey, Sam! You know me, I love lending a hand.” I shrugged.

I’d begun to get over being embarrassed about losing a part or two. It happened far too often these days. Though I was still having the occasional bout of abashment here and there.

“Catch,” Sam hollered as she tossed my hand back to me.

I caught it and walked calmly to the bar, pulling my trusty yellow stapler from the pocket of my jean jacket. As I stapled my hand back on I pretended not to notice the winces of the other customers or Griff’s immediate dash to the kitchen.

Getting used to me losing a limb was one thing, getting used to me stapling it back on with a loud ka-chunk was something else entirely –and not for the squeamish.

As Sam came over to me I opened my arms to hug her. It’d been awhile since I had seen her last and I read about her latest exploit in the papers. She’d caught a vicious serial killer and made the streets of Birmingham safe for good honest monsters like me and my horde.

I pulled the jacket from the stool, upsetting it in the process, and it banged into my shin, hard.

“Oh, crap, crap, crap, ow, crap!” I hissed through clenched teeth while hopping on one foot and clutching my injured shin with both hands.

“You okay?” Sam tried to hide her smile at the typically me-like maneuver.

“Yeah, it just smarts a little.” I lowered my leg and motioned to the stool that’d just assaulted me before continuing, “I saved you a seat.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” Sam slid onto the stool smoothly.

I have always envied those who could move all stealthily and gracefully. I am not one of them, as you have probably noticed.

“How have you been?”

“Good. Things have been…weird, I guess.”

“I heard about the serial killer you stopped.”

“Yeah, that was a rough one. I didn’t think it was going to be as hard as it was.”

“Why not?”

“Well, he was a shifter himself, so the fact he was preying on other shifters made it hard to swallow. He really bought into the Hollywood facts and thought we were all evil and in need of a good killing.”


“To say the least,” Sam looked haunted and shook her head as if to try and shake off the bad memories.

“So, tell me about this new guy in your life. The papers called him your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sam growled.

She actually, and quite literally, growled. Shifters often brought their animal side front and center without realizing it, usually when emotions ran high.

“Whoa! You really like this guy!”

“He’s my maker, Bob,” she said quietly.

“You’re dating God?” I blinked in mock surprise.

“No, goofball, he’s the guy who made me a werejaguar.”

“Wow, heavy. How are you dealing with all that?”

“As best I can. We are still trying to work out the whole thing. Which reminds me, have you ever heard of a sire bond?” Sam asked.

Jaime blue straight hair

Jaime Johnesee lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons. She spent fourteen years as a zookeeper before shifting her focus to writing full time. Widely known for her bestselling horror comedy series, Bob the Zombie, she is currently coauthoring the paranormal horror series, Revelations, for Devil Dog Press as well as working on her Shifters series. You can find out more about Jaime Johnesee at her website: https://www.JaimeJohnesee.com

 As well as on

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJaimeJohnesee

Twitter: https://twitter.com/jaimejohnesee

Google: https://plus.google.com/100525684067368354417

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The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Jessica Gomez #WinterofZombie

Infected Cover

I stumbled down the sidewalks crumbled remains, watching the grey and white clouds swirl a daring dance around each other; waiting for rain to descend from their bellies. I couldn’t remember when the last time was that a drop of water touched these lips. Most of the rivers and streams have either dried up, been poisoned, or are guarded by renegade survivors―People you would be smart to stay clear of.

I scanned my surroundings, surveying the dilapidated, deserted city. The same broken cars, buildings, and roads that were once normal pieces of society flooded my vision. Roads and buildings overgrown by trees, weeds, and any other vegetation that wanted to reclaim their land. I always thought it would take longer than a year to erase anything and everything the human race was once proud of. Buildings had been brought down by the rough year after the Flash, some still stitched together by steel beams, missing their skin. Others still stood, dressing up in vegetation. Either way, they all appeared as if they belonged in a graveyard, left abandoned by all the people who used to go about their daily lives in them.

The worst parts were the bones and tattered clothing left behind by those who perished, laying bleached in the sun. Some of them still held remnants of hair and skin.

            I paused to gaze at myself in a broken window. How long had it been since I’d last seen my reflection? I pulled the hood off my head and studied my features. My hair was brushing past my shoulder blades now. The last time I’d attempted to cut it, I’d used a piece of broken glass from a window. I almost severed one of my fingers in the process, so I decided to let it grow out.

            My long, blonde hair reflected off the few streams of sun radiating through the clouds, the color resembling shimmering wheat fields. Standing at about five foot two, I was a slight thing–not too short–yet not tall by anyone’s standards. I was always slender, but since the food was scarce, my clothes hang off me like rags. My green eyes sparkled back at me like emeralds, the one and only thing I loved about my appearance, and the one thing that could never be robbed from me in these rough months.

Seemingly, out of nowhere, my eyes locked onto seven men and two women who were standing behind me, smiling vindictively in the reflection on the glass. It was like they appeared out of thin air. I turned to run, but they were already surrounding me in a semi-circle. My breathing slammed in and out of my lungs as I began panting, as if I’d just ran a marathon. My vision was beginning to narrow and I knew that I needed to control myself.

“Go on, Ryan, you know what your choices are. Are you going to save her?” The man that spoke tilted his head back and laughed as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world. Ryan, the man he spoke to, wasn’t much older than me–maybe nineteen to my sixteen–and possibly one of the best-looking guys I had ever seen. His brown hair flopped into his bright blue eyes, his skin tanned and toned.

The man’s words began to register and I knew that I had to get away, but before I could move, I watched as Ryan’s face changed from concerned, scared, and pitiful, to fierce and determined. He began his advance and I watched in horror as his eyes devoured me where I stood…

I bolted upright, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs at a burning rate. I glanced over to check the tiny sleeping bundle next to me. I waited for her blankets to move up and down, making sure she was still breathing before I wiped the cold sweat off my forehead. The dream always had a way of igniting my adrenalin, even after years of repetition. Taking a shaky breath in, I settled my nerves and placed a hand on my little angel, reassuring myself again. Life is completely fucked up. Not only did life as we know it end, but some of the worst events in people’s lives can bring about the best.


Amazon US (Kindle): http://amzn.to/1EFRnwj

Amazon US (Paperback): http://amzn.to/1RIkE2w

Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1LDPRzB

Amazon CA: http://amzn.to/1IJZuij

Amazon AU: http://bit.ly/1KZNsi8

*   *   *   *   *

The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser…and pick up some great swag as well!

Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

#WinterofZombie is the hashtag for Twitter, too!

Teaser: Mark Tufo #WinterofZombie


This is a ZF10 Prologue – It won’t give much away if you’re new to the series, with that being said, do you really want to start here? Go read the first nine and a half then come back, I’ll wait. (Insert Monty Python intermission music here) WELCOME BACK, I missed you! Do you have a cookie for Henry?


Oh yeah this is a warning, the scene is relatively graphic and violent, if you have delicate sensibilities you may want to go find a Garfield comic strip instead. 🙂 Otherwise I hope you enjoy it.


ZF10 Prologue


Deneaux was halfway through Indiana when whatever hell’s angel was tasked with looking out for her, took the morning off. She’d stopped at a rest stop just outside of Indianapolis. Apparently, even demons hell-bent on undeserved revenge and retribution need sleep. Her head was thrown back against the seat rest, a burned down cigarette with an incredibly long ash firmly planted in her mouth. When the heavy rapping came on her window, she started awake and the residue fell onto her lap. She lifted her revolver, expecting to find a zombie at the window, but what she got was worse.

“Put it down.” The man said with a gap-toothed smile. A thick, brown beard covered his face and the old acne scars he’d developed in his youth. An orange hunter’s cap adorned his head. Deneaux could recognize evil in another, and his eyeless grim smile was unnerving.

“I won’t say it again.” He pointed to the front of the truck, where a man with a wicked looking assault rifle aimed straight at her. “And in case you have a Jesse James complex.” He pointed to the passenger side, where another man had a large caliber handgun directed at her.

Deneaux did her best to remain calm. She placed the gun on the seat beside her.

“There, all better now. I mean you no harm.”

“Unlock the door.” The grin had faded almost immediately.

“We’re all in this together. I’m just trying to get back to my family.”

“We’re in it together.” He said, pointing to the men with guns. “You’re just a resource. Unlock the door. I won’t say it again so kindly.”

Deneaux looked around the cab. The truck wasn’t even started. There were not even odds available to her warming up the glow plugs and getting the truck out of there before she was riddled with bullets. She undid the door lock.

When she unlocked the door, the man flung it opened and wrenched her out. She smacked onto the pavement hard, wincing in pain. The man leaned down.

“The next time I tell you to do something, I suggest you hurry up.” The man roughly patted her down. “Get up.”

“I’m … I’m hurt.” she had her hands out to show the road rash she’d suffered.

“Not yet, but you will be.”

“Please, please it doesn’t need to be like this.”

“Fuck, Wember. What is she, like a hundred and twelve?” The man with the assault rifle had come over. He’d shouldered his rifle and was moving to look inside the cab of the truck.

“Quit your bitching, Veeral. At least she’s got a pussy.”

“Are you sure?” Veeral laughed, “Thing has probably fallen off from disuse.”

“Naw, when they’re this old, the things fill with dust and scab over,” the third said.

“Fuck, Jolly. You’re gross. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Just this piece and a shitload of cigarettes,” Veeral said while he put the gun in his waistband.

“Can … can I have a cigarette?”

Wember took one step over to her and punched the side of her head hard enough that she blacked out. She heard laughter as her head bounced off the ground, then nothing. When she awoke, it was hours later. Night had settled. Her head throbbed, but that wasn’t the worst of it. She was propped up against a decent sized oak, her arms were behind her, and she was tied to that tree. Her breath hitched when she realized her boots and pants had been removed. Her panties were torn and pulled to the side. Blood coated the inside of her thighs. She saw Veeral’s back as he approached the fire. He was fumbling with his zipper.

“Bitch is as dry as a funeral drum,” he complained.

“Like that’s ever stopped you,” Wember said, handing him a piece of cooked rabbit.

“Please,” Deneaux croaked. Her shoulders threatened to pull out of their sockets. Her head felt nearly concussed. Her genitals ached from the abuse. But it was the siren call of the nicotine that she begged for.

“Haven’t you learned bitch?” Wember said, arising from his log around the fire. He grabbed a burning switch and smacked it along the side of her face. She screamed out in pain as the side of her face charred. “You talk when I tell you to.” He turned back and tossed the stick back into the fire. Deneaux whimpered, the pain momentarily making her forget about her addiction, but only momentarily.

“She smells better than she looks. Maybe we should just eat her,” Jolly said.

“I ain’t doing that again. That boy tasted horrible, and I was sick as shit for like a week.”

“I told you before, Veeral. It wasn’t the boy that made you sick. It was the damned crushed can of beans that did you in. Botulism or some shit. How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t eat the damaged cans. Bacteria gets in them.”

“I was hungry.”

“His calf wasn’t enough?” Jolly smacked Veeral’s arm good-naturedly.

“I’d rather have cow,” Veeral said sadly.

“We all would. The chewers aren’t leaving much behind, though,” Wember said, turning the spit. “At least now we can play with our food and not get in trouble!” They all laughed. Deneaux shivered.

She didn’t believe in karma. This wasn’t about things coming full circle for all she’d done. This was a current bad situation from which she needed to extradite herself. She slept in fitful spurts; every time her head hung, low it would pull against her shoulders, jerking her back awake. More times than not, she would awake to have Veeral standing over her. Her mouth was parched, her cheek stung, she would have just about quit smoking for a glass of water right then. She thought her pleas had been heard when she felt water raining down on her. That quickly changed to disgust when some of the broccoli smelling saltiness of urine entered into her mouth. Her spitting and retching noises were met with Veeral’s laughter.

“You like that?” he asked as he shook the last few drops free. “Don’t want to get any in my pants,” he said as he kept at it, making sure the clingers departed as well. “Gotta admit, you’re not much to look at, but you fuck nice enough.” He leaned down and stroked the side of her face. She did not flinch, a smoldering coal red burned in her eyes. Veeral slapped her. “Don’t you look at me like that. Don’t you ever!” He smacked her again, hoping that would stop the shiver that had niggled into the base of his spine.

“Be nice to her. Don’t you know who she is?” Wember asked as he untied her.

She again cried out as her shoulders slid back into place. She hated herself for being so weak.

“What do I give a fuck who this dried up hag is?”

“You’re just about giving it to royalty.”

“She’s the Queen of England? Are you fucking kidding me?” Veeral got down to get a closer look at her. “She don’t look like the Queen. What was that bitches name? Eliza or something?”

“Elizabeth, you idiot, and I said like royalty. Naw, this here this is Vivian Deneaux if her license is right.”

“Do know what?”

“No Den-oh. Damn, you really are an idiot. If you weren’t my brother’s best friend, I would have shot you by now.”

“Fine, Deneaux. So what?”

“Her husband was a senator or something. She comes from money or has money, or more likely, knowing these rich fucks, they stole money. Why aren’t you riding this out in some super-secret government bunker?”

Vivian didn’t immediately answer, too lost in her own pain and misery. Wember shook her back to reality quickly when he smacked a switch across the bottom of her bare foot. Pain rocketed up her legs and spine and flared at the base of her neck, where it radiated around her entire skull.

“So is you is or is you ain’t?” Jolly asked coming up. The three men were standing over her.

Her tongue burned with a verbal acidity that she wished to spew. It would do no good in this situation. They’d already proved they would hurt her, and the killing would come soon enough at this pace.

“I am Vivian Deneaux.” She tried to hold her head high, but it pulled on her shoulders.

“So what?” Veeral asked. “She was a rich bitch once. What’s that mean?”

“Isn’t this about the time you tell us you can get us money?” Wember laughed.

“I could, but we both know money is no good. What about gold?”

“Where am I going to use gold?”

“Smart man like you has to have this figured out by now. Don’t you?”

“Why don’t you go ahead and let me know what my plans are.”

“This has to end sometime. And you’re right, regular paper money will be useless. But gold has been valuable since man discovered it. Thousands of cultures and civilizations have perished and fallen, yet gold has always remained a valuable commodity. The people that have it will always be able to rule over all others that don’t.”

“And you’d just hand this gold over would you?”

“I’d be willing to trade some of it in exchange for my life.”

“What if I just took it all?” Wember asked.

“Yeah, what if we just took it all?” Veeral asked, not realizing the minor discrepancy between his and Wember’s words.

“Where’s this gold? I’m going to need to see it.” Wember pushed Veeral out of the way.

“Do you really believe that I carry my gold around with me? Could I have some water, please.”

“Where’s the gold bitch?”

“I need some water.”

Wember raised his hand.

“I’m no good to you dead or rendered unconscious. I need some water and a cigarette.”

Wember’s hand wavered in the air. He turned and smacked his brother on the arm. “Get the hag some water.”

“And a cigarette.”

“And a cigarette.”

Wember lit the cigarette. She took two long drags from the stick before she even spun the lid off the water bottle.

They watched her every movement as if she had just become fascinating. That somehow the rich and elite did the mundane things differently.

“Why ain’t you in your bunker with all your gold and the other douchebag government types?” Wember asked.

She took another long drag. “We were on a mission of mercy. Bringing supplies to those in the greatest need when we were attacked by a horde the size of which we’d never encountered before. Five of us had escaped, two had been bitten. We cared for them as best we could.”

“The only care you could have given them was a .45 caliber aspirin.”

“There’s vaccination.”


“I’ve seen it.”

“There’s a cure?” Jolly asked.

“Not a cure, dumb ass. It prevents you from ever becoming a chewer,” Wember told his brother, but looked over to Deneaux for acknowledgement

“There’s something like that out there?” Veeral asked.

“Well, if we’re to believe Hagatha here.”

“Civilization is closer to being restored than you know. That’s why we were out there helping those people. The more that survive now, the more there will be to rebuild.”

“Yeah and you rich fucks need the little worker bees to do it. Don’t you?” Wember sneered.

“I’m offering you a chance to be part of the ruling class. You won’t be a worker bee anymore. We can have the planet back in a year, maybe less.”

“I like the way the world is now,” Jolly said. “We can do what we want to whoever we want whenever we want.”

“You can do that when you’re rich and powerful, too,” Deneaux said. “But you can do it while you’re living in the lap of luxury. People will actually bring the things you desire to you.”

Deneaux could almost see the thought bubble form over Jolly’s head as he thought about sitting on a couch, being fed grapes by nude women.

“Where’s this bunker?”

Deneaux did not hesitate. “Maine.”

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The stench of frozen flesh is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2015, with 40+ of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

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Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them!

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