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

  Ultimate Undead Collection

  The Zombie Apocalypse Best Sellers Boxed Set (10 Books)

  Contributors:

  Joe McKinney

  Bobby Adair and TW Piperbrook

  Michaelbrent Collings

  David Moody

  Shawn Chesser

  Sarah Lyons Fleming

  Timothy W Long

  Rachel Aukes

  Eric A. Shelman

  Armand Rosamilia

  Copyright © 2014 by:

  Joe Clayton McKinney

  Beezle Publishing

  Michaelbrent Collings

  David Moody

  Shawn Chesser

  Sarah Lyons Fleming

  Timothy W. Long

  Rachel Aukes

  Dolphin Moon Publishing

  Armand Rosamilia

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

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

  Ultimate Undead Collection

  Foreword by bestselling author, Mark Tufo.

  Quarantined by Joe McKinney. Two-time Bram Stoker® award-winning and national bestselling author. Within the quarantined walls of San Antonio, Texas, a detective discovers a murder victim amongst the mass graveyard of the plague dead.

  The Last Survivors by Bobby Adair and T.W. Piperbrook. National bestselling authors. Three hundred years after the fall of society, the last fragments of civilization are clinging to life, while twisted creatures hunt.

  The Colony: Genesis (Book 1) by Michaelbrent Collings. International bestselling author. Forget everything you think you know about zombies… Conversion is instant. Headshots just make them angry. And they’re getting smarter.

  Autumn: The Human Condition by David Moody. International bestselling author. Part-companion, part-guidebook and part-sequel, this novel follows the individual stories of these desperate survivors through their final dark days.

  Trudge: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser. National bestselling author. A former Delta Force operator must make an impossible 3,000 mile journey across a United States filled with millions of infected to find his family—or die trying.

  Until the End of the World by Sarah Lyons Fleming. National bestselling author. A story of survival, humor, and true love. And zombies.

  Zombie Wilson Diaries by Timothy W. Long. National bestselling author. A castaway on a tropical island, his only companion is a creature who hungers for human flesh.

  100 Days in Deadland by Rachel Aukes. Award-winning and national bestselling author. A journey through Dante’s Inferno, the classic tale on the horrors of hell… zombie apocalypse style.

  Dead Hunger: The Flex Chronicle by Eric A. Shelman. National bestselling author. Four unlikely heroes battle hordes of the walking dead in the first installment of an epic saga encompassing two decades.

  Dying Days by Armand Rosamilia. National bestselling author. Sunny Florida, beautiful beaches... and zombies roaming the dunes in search of the living.

  Foreword

  Hello Dear Reader; my name is Mark Tufo. I’m the author of the best selling Zombie Fallout series along with another dozen or so books. Rachel kindly invited me to write a foreword for this most amazing accumulation of terror, grotesquery, and most of all, incredible talent. I could easily launch into a full blown praise-rant about these authors and their work, but I guess I’ll let you discover the awesomeness for yourself. Every selection is a choice cut; this isn’t like some lame pop-album with two or three hits peppered with a bunch of fillers. All of these authors are extremely gifted, and each has brought you a special slice of their craft to enjoy, I would, however, not recommend indulging in their work after dark, especially if you’re home alone.

  Speaking of being alone in the dark, don’t let anyone tell you writing is all fun and games. Writing a book can be a lonely and desolate landscape fraught with hidden dangers, and without the help, advice, and lessons learned from these authors and those like them, no one would emerge alive, including myself. Worse yet, we’d be doomed to make the same mistakes repeatedly. Everybody needs a support group at their back -- it’s like having a sawed off double barrel crowbar with a machete attached. I am honored to consider many of these authors friends, and one, at least, as a mentor. Yeah, I’m talking about you Armand. (Note: don’t let his crankiness fool you -- he’s only like that most of the time.) Then there’s Joe McKinney, who has won multiple awards for his work, and even though he’s in demand, this is a guy that has always offered advice and guidance whenever I have asked him. For that, I am most appreciative. Shawn Chesser, Tim Long, Eric Shelman, and Bobby Adair … just a few of the authors that I consider friends, each and every one of them willing to help in any way they can.

  Let me tell you, having a group of people like this watching your back -- well, that’s priceless. There are some that think of writing as a competition, but it’s really more of a solitary surviving type of endeavor. It’s never been about me versus them. There’s plenty of readers to go around, and the more readers we can bring to our own pages, the more readers we can share with our friends. Because it’s never been about us as writers; it’s about You, and it always has been. Let’s face it, without an audience, we’re just those weird people tapping away at keyboards, telling tales in the shadows of obscurity.

  I could go off on a dissertation about what zombies mean to us, and why they have remained so popular; refuse to die, you might say. Or maybe describe my stance on world politics, because that would be fun (for me, anyway). But, I digress. I finally came to the decision (okay, my wife did) to just do what I do best drink beer umm I mean-- tell a dark little tale to wet your whistle and get you in the mood for what’s to come … enjoy!

  “Don’t ever look under the bed, Joey.” Sarah said to her younger brother. The flashlight she held under her chin gave her eyes a grim look, even at twelve tender years of age. Joey, scared half to death, had tears brimming the rims of his eyes, the covers nearly pulled over the top of his head. During the daytime, Sarah Hansen was all blond hair, pigtails, blue eyes, and all that was good in the world. Come sundown she was her younger brother’s personal hell. He was small for ten; most of this might be attributed to the relentless soul crushing administered nightly by his big sister.

  ***

  “Oh Mommy, I’ll read him a story so he’ll fall asleep.”

  “Thank you sweetie,” their mother, Debi, said, kissing the top of the girl’s head. Those double shifts at the local Denny’s gave her little time to do much else except pay bills and catch up on sleep. Her no-good, two-timing, cheat of an asshole husband had left them almost six months ago, taking with him what pennies they’d been able to save.

  “No … no stories tonight pleeeeeeeeeeeese.” Joey begged. He’d just turned ten and he could not remember a time when his sister had not told him something that would haunt his dreams and darken his days.

  “Oh you’ll like this one.” Her mouth took on a downward sneer and her eyebrows furrowed, giving Joey a true glimpse of the disturbed child that Sarah hid from the rest of the world. “Have you looked under your bed?”

  He shook his head back and forth vigorously.

  “You remember what I told you?”

  His head bobbed up and down; this was a practiced ritual between
them.

  “Good. Because if you ever do, I’ll stab mommy in the throat while you watch. Believe me?”

  Joey’s head nodded in affirmation. That was a variation on her threats. While most revolved around killing their mother in some horrendous way, more than a few involved some form of torture or disfigurement to him as well. And he believed her, heart and soul. Sarah finished up a particularly gruesome tale; a young boy was being beaten to death with baseball bats like a piñata while savage vampires drank the blood as it flowed from his body. When she was thoroughly convinced her brother would spend another night in the company of terror, she smiled, rose from his bed, and tenderly touched his cheek. Then, she yanked the nightlight from its socket, told him goodnight, and slammed his bedroom door tight, encasing him in crypt-like blackness.

  He knew better than to call out for his mother; first because she wasn’t home and second this would only bring on the wrath of Sarah the following evening had she been. Sarah would tell him another horrific story, all the while pinching him so hard he would want to cry, and he could never do that, he could never cry out loud, not again. She’d once held his privates in a pair of kid-friendly safety scissors hard enough that she’d drawn blood. Sarah had also shown him the knife she would shove in their mommy if she had to come and see to her little baby again.

  Slowly, too slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the absence of light. He could just make out his desk, the shelf of toy cars, and beakers for projects from Doctor Neutron’s Nifty Chemistry and Experimental Laboratory Set (Made for the Scientist in All of Us!) which was on the far side of his room. He focused on those, those familiar models and kid experiments, like how to grow crystals or make volcanoes, that he and his father had spent so much time working on. Those scattered memories were the only good things left in his life. Just as he began to relax, a scratching sound pierced through the night, nearly freezing his heart in its place. Something was in the closet. If only he could keep himself together for one more night. “Please ... no,” he begged, pulling the covers up higher. He knew the scratching would not stop no matter how long he kept his head buried. The room got quiet but by then the early birds were getting their worms by the time Joey fell asleep. The next day was much like all the others. Joey walked around like a zombie, half-dead, while Sarah squealed with delight at all the world had to offer. But by nine that night, her claws and fangs came back out -- at least that was how Joey saw it.

  “Sarah,” Debi said, “you’re in charge tonight. I can’t afford a babysitter right now. I have to work the midnight shift and deal with a bunch of groping perverts and shitfaced teenagers.” She turned to her children as she opened the door. “You two be good.”

  “We will mommy,” Sarah beamed, her fingers crossed behind her back.

  “Mommy, can I come with?” Joey begged.

  “How sweet.” She stroked the back of his head. “I’ll see you both in the morning. Lock up Honey, when I leave.” She closed the door, and Sarah threw the bolt in place. She turned back to her brother.

  “Bedtime,” She said malevolently.

  “Sa...Sarah, there’s something in my closet. I don’t want to go back to my room!”

  “You are such a pasty faced baby. I should just kill you tonight while I have the chance. Me and mommy would be so much better off without you, and she wouldn’t have to work as many hours.”

  Joey covered his ears, attempting to shut out all she said.

  “Let’s go.” She dragged him by the arm, nearly pulling the thin limb from its socket. “Is this the closet you’re so afraid of scaredy cat?!”

  Joey tried to pull away from his sister’s iron grip. He nodded desperately.

  “Open it!” She barked.

  Joey shook from head to toe, so violently he finally broke free and fell to the floor. The cruel laughter of his sister followed him all the way down.

  “I’m going to open it and the evil clown that’s hiding in here is going to run out and grab you! He’s going to rip you apart like you were an old doll!”

  “No, Sarah!” Joey pleaded.

  “I hate you Joey! I hope whatever is in here finally gets rid of you.” Her hand slowly twisted the knob. She stopped when she heard the scratching sound Joey had heard the night before.

  “Are you trying to scare me?” She turned her wrathful question on her brother. He shook his head slowly, his eyes widening in anticipation. “I’m not scared of anything -- especially from some little bastard runt like you!” She pulled the door open quickly; the bottom of a serial killer’s soul could not have been pitched a deeper black than the darkness at the back of that closet. Sarah smirked. “There’s nothing in here.” She leaned in to get a closer look … her high-pitched scream was quickly stifled as a bone white hand shot out from the darkness and wrapped itself tightly around her throat. A strangled “...erg…” sound came from her frothing mouth.

  Joey stood up. “Hi dad!” he said as what was left of his father’s face appeared from a mound of laundry effectively piled over him in a bid to keep his presence a secret. Shriveled, cracked lips pulled back to show blackened, chipped teeth. Skin hung in long ribbons where his filthy fingernails had torn into his cheeks. Sunken, watery eyes the color of old milk shone dully back at his son and then turned towards his daughter. A ghostly moan emanated from his ruined mouth, the smell of death and decay washed over her.

  Sarah was kicking and pulling away from her father; she had freed her throat enough to gulp down some air. “Joeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey! Help me!”

  “Help you? I’ve been trying to kill you ever since I realized what you were. Thank God dad got me that chemistry set last year for Christmas. I was trying to make a poison for you to drink one night, but some of the chemicals fell into Petey’s cage.” Petey was Joey’s hamster who had met an untimely demise. “He died almost immediately. I was going to flush him down the toilet the next morning. Weird thing, though. When I woke up he was alive again. Well, sort of. His eyes were white like dad’s and he wouldn’t eat his food anymore. I went to the pet store and got another hamster to see if he could teach Petey how to eat again. But Petey ate that other hamster, every bit of him. Even the tail. It was kind of gross, but kind of fascinating, too.

  I used up all I had to make another batch. How could I know dad was going to eat the bowl of cereal mom put out for you? While she was taking you to school, I got dad into the closet. Wasn’t easy; luckily he was stumbling to his bed before he died, so I didn’t have to drag him too far. Then I just tied him up so he couldn’t escape. Screw looking under the bed Sarah! You shouldn’t have opened the closet.” Joey laughed a twisted maniacal cackle as his father bit into the side of Sarah’s face, neatly bisecting her eyeball. Her screams mixed with her brother’s triumphant giggle as he shut the door. He thought he might ask his mother do his laundry tomorrow on her day off.

  I truly hoped you enjoyed my short story and it has got you in the mood for some seriously devilish tales! And when you’re done here feel free to swing on by and say HI to me at marktufo.com.

  ~Mark Tufo, January 2015

  Quarantined

  Joe McKinney

  Copyright © 2014 by:

  Joe Clayton McKinney

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

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

  The policy questions for a president in dealing with an avian flu outbreak are difficult. One example: If we had an outbreak somewhere in the United States, do we not then quarantine that part of the country? And how do you, then, enforce a quarantine? And who best to be able to affect a quarantine?

  One option is the use of a military that's able to plan and move. So that's why I put it on the table. I think it's an important debate for Congress to have.

  -President George W. Bush

  October 4, 2005

  Chapter 1
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br />   By Christmas of last year, the San Antonio Flu had reached such a crisis that we needed a mass burial site for the dead. We were interring as many as eight thousand bodies a month, and so homicide detectives like myself were taken off our normal duties, stuffed into Stage IV MOPP suits, and assigned to work burial statistics duty, cataloguing the dead for loved ones and future historians.

  But by the summer, the grim chore no longer seemed like hell, but felt like it too. San Antonio in August is brutally hot. Inside my MOPP suit my skin was pruned from sweat and my eyes burned because I couldn’t touch my face to wipe it away. My fellow detectives made dark jokes that we were in greater danger of drowning in our sweat than from catching the flu from the diseased corpses with which we worked. But it wasn’t just the heat that made the job suck so badly. All those bodies, some already two weeks dead, stank horribly. And when they started baking under the heat of the South Texas sun, the smell was bad enough that even veteran detectives sometimes vomited inside their spacesuits without warning. We were given fresh filters for our gas masks at the start of every shift, but they did little to block out the smell.

  And that was my day-to-day reality, sixteen hours a day, six days a week, right up to the moment Isaac Hernandez drove his death wagon into my stall.

  I walked around the flatbed trailer, looking at the shoeless feet of the dead he’d brought in, clipboard in my hand, while Chunk, my partner, went over the manifest with Hernandez. That was when I saw the caked on dirt on the bottom of the dead girl’s feet. She was one of the bodies up near the front of the trailer, her feet just barely poking out from beneath the tarpaulin. Nothing unusual about dirty feet, except that the gray toe tag she was wearing meant the Medical Examiner’s Office had done an autopsy on her, and they rinse the bodies down after they do an autopsy.