Zombie Chaos | Book 4 | Scout's Horror

she frequently gave me a hard time, she rarely ignored her daughter’s heartfelt requests.
I glanced at my wife and mouthed thank you before turning toward the other half of our caravan. Casey met my gaze and rolled down his window a couple inches, so I did the same.
We could’ve used the walkie-talkies to communicate, but that seemed silly given our proximity.
“More hippies,” Casey mused. “Must’ve been with that Bug we just saw.”
“Yeah, I’d assume. Nothing like a fall retreat for a bunch of free-lovin’ senior citizens.” I shook my head. “Didn’t stand a chance against the undead.”
Based on the vintage vehicles and vague scent of reefer in the woodsy air, I figured they’d been lifelong flower children or, rather, ancient baby boomers trying to recapture their glory years. Either way, they were all dead. Or deadish.
Jesus, how old are these zombies? Eighty? Ninety? Does it even matter?
I recalled the grizzled, long-haired dude bracing himself atop the VW Bug that had zigzagged past us en route to its final blaze of glory. Even if the guy hadn’t become a zombie, he would’ve looked close to death. Scraggly, wrinkly, and fairly used up, riding the roof as if he’d once starred in a crappy surfer movie in which, well… people did stupid shit like that.
Still, I felt bad for the undead hippies. Like many other humans around the world, they hadn’t deserved such a horrific fate.
Abruptly, the thought crossed my mind to simply push the hippie-mobile aside with our van. But since it sat mere inches from the bridge, I worried the damn thing could get hung up on the railing, which would leave us in some serious shit.
As with the three undead Walmart greeters I’d violently dispatched the day before, I needed to lure the zombies out of their vehicle so I could shove it into neutral and steer it out of the way.
“Well, Mr. Joe,” Casey asked, “what’re you thinking?”
“Trying to figure out the best way to get rid of the hippies.”
“We could just shoot them,” George proposed from the driver’s seat of the station wagon.
“Yeah.” I gazed into the surrounding woods. “But that’ll make a lotta noise. We might be able to find a good spot to bunk down for some rest, but not if we make a huge racket.”
Unfortunately, even a national forest wouldn’t be without its share of the undead.
“Looks like just a few in there,” I surmised. “I think we can take ’em out quiet-like.”
George and Casey quickly agreed. No doubt they were as sick of being on the road as I was.
So, while they waited in the relative safety of their vehicle, I ventured toward the rear of my rig—past my scowling mother-in-law—to one of the kitchen cabinets I’d previously loaded with weapons and tools.
After a minute of rummaging, I plucked out an axe. Not the ornamental one Clare had given me as a long-ago Christmas present—the one, incidentally, that had saved my ass in our French Quarter courtyard. No, this was a double-sided battle axe that I’d purchased from an eccentric-but-talented weaponsmith.
As with most of the gear, guns, and other prepping essentials Clare and I had amassed prior to the inevitable zombie apocalypse, we’d discovered the wacky artisan during one of our many online searches. According to his now-defunct website, he’d handcrafted a wide array of badass weapons, from daggers and broadswords to maces and crossbows—the kind of items that would’ve suited role-playing gamers in a live-action campaign of Dungeons & Dragons.
To say his workmanship had awed me would be a major understatement.
Instead of having the battle axe and other medieval weapons I’d purchased shipped to northern Michigan—like the bulk of my prepping essentials—I’d had them sent to my mailbox at the French Quarter Postal Emporium. Why? Cuz I knew I’d feel better having access to those babies on the road. And as a bonus, wielding them made me feel less out of shape and more like Conan the Barbarian from those old movies starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Suddenly, I wondered if ol’ Arnie had survived California’s undead invasion. Even at his advanced age, he could’ve easily pummeled a zombie to death—something I certainly could never do.
But I’d had an advantage over most people—even those richer, stronger, and more famous than I’d ever be. Unlike them, I’d received early information about the impending zombie apocalypse, ultimately giving me two weeks to prepare for the worst. True, I wasn’t in top fighting shape—and likely never would be—but when it came to enduring a world-ending crisis, I’d prefer foreknowledge over brawn any day.
And weapons. Lots and lots of weapons.
Armed with my battle axe, I headed back up front. Thankfully, Jill remained silent as I passed.
“Stay here,” I told Clare. “And keep the engine running.”
My wife nodded, her brow furrowed with worry. “Please be careful.”
I smiled reassuringly. “I’ll do my best.”
Based on how tired I felt, though, I hoped my current “best” would be enough to avoid any mistakes that might end with a geriatric zombie biting my fucking nose off.

Chapter
2
“I kinda like the sight of blood… but this is disgusting!” – Col. Malcolm Grommett Spears, The Stuff (1985)
As soon as I hopped out of the van and slid the driver’s-side door shut, Casey opened his own door.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” George snapped. “This time, you stay here.”
I couldn’t really blame her. During our last extravehicular activity, Casey and I had almost met a grisly end, thanks to two zombified canines and an enraged wildling. Though George was one of the toughest broads I’d ever met, she was first and foremost a mother.
“Come on, Mom,” Casey whined. “I can handle it.”
George’s face softened. “I know you can, but it’s my turn.”
While Casey remained in the passenger seat, sulking, his mother emerged from the battle wagon, gripping a tire iron.
Catching my eye, she patted the holstered 9mm handgun I’d given her earlier. “Just in case. Better a loud noise than a nasty bite.”
I cupped my own holstered pistol. “Damn straight.”
The two