Rise of the Undead Box Set | Books 1-3 | Apocalypse Z

Just the way Dylan remembered. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’m sorry I bailed after your parents’ deaths. I’m sorry I couldn’t deal with your sorrow.
None of that mattered as she went up the stairs, clutching her gun with sweaty palms. The landing appeared, the carpet as pristine as snow. Three doors led off the corridor. Each open. At the end, the master bedroom’s door loomed. Shut. A single bloody handprint was smeared across the surface, and Dylan swallowed at the sight. “Please, don’t let it be Frankie’s. Please.”
She forced her reluctant body to move, to close the distance. Her nostrils flared as a horrid stench thickened the air, clinging to the back of her throat. Her hand reached out and touched the handle. It turned beneath her palm, swinging inward on creaky hinges. A monster burst through, teeth snapping at her flesh. His eyes were black, same as the veins crossing his skin. A map of death.
Terror surged through Dylan, electrifying her nervous system like a bolt of lightning. She stumbled backward on legs turned to jelly, and her finger tightened on the trigger. The shot went wild, a clean miss. Before she could try again he was on her, knocking her hand aside with such force that the gun went flying.
Dylan leaped for her pistol, desperate to catch it. She missed by a mere inch. It landed with a clatter, skittered across the floor and slipped through the railings, falling to the landing below.
“No!” Dylan cried, running for the stairs.
Peter, or whoever he was, grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her backward. His strength was incredible, and he pulled her clean off her feet. She landed hard, pain lancing through her back. He gnashed at her exposed throat, and she reacted on instinct, punching him in the nose. His head snapped back, and putrid blood sprayed from his nostrils.
Dylan broke free of his hold with a second punch to the neck, and crab walked away from him toward the stairs. She crawled as fast as she could, and the carpet fibers scratched at her exposed skin.
Peter gave chase, launching himself at her with a vicious snarl as she reached the top of the steps. He bowled her over, and they went tumbling head over heels. Dylan didn’t know which way was up as she rolled down the stairs, her arms and legs flailing through the air. Her head hit the railing, followed by her shoulders, hips, and thighs. Pain pierced her ribs. Something crunched, but she couldn’t tell what it was. Him or her.
She crashed to a stop at the bottom, half-lying on top of Peter. He wriggled like a worm, clawing at her face with hooked fingers. Fighting to keep his teeth out of her flesh, she spotted the Glock a few feet away.
Fueled by desperation, she kicked against the wall and threw herself forward, but Peter had other plans. He latched onto her arm and bit down, chewing like a rabid dog to get through the denim jacket she wore.
Dylan screamed in agony and twisted around. Using her legs, she knocked him aside and crawled across the floor. A small side table rocked when she bumped against it, and a vase almost brained her. She gripped it by the open mouth and swung it at Peter’s head with all the force she could muster. It shattered against his temple, showering them both with shards of porcelain.
He hardly slowed down and kept coming instead. His growls sawed into her brain, adding to the fear already threatening to incapacitate her. She spotted a chunk of the vase next to her and grabbed it. With the sharp end, she stabbed at this face, hoping to pierce the brain. Instead, she cut into the skin of his forehead and sliced open her own hand.
“What the hell?” With a scream of frustration, she launched herself at the gun again. As her hand closed around the butt just as Peter grabbed her foot. He yanked her toward his waiting mouth, and she snapped off three shots in quick succession. Plaster rained from the walls, and her ears sang from the reverberations in the confined space.
The third shot found its mark, and his head exploded in a spray of putrid brain matter. Peter slumped to the ground, leaving her gasping for breath. She fell back, spreadeagled on the carpet as all the strength fled her limbs.
For several seconds, Dylan couldn’t move, frozen in place as her mind tried to regroup. The intense fear gradually receded, leaving her drained and exhausted. Her head throbbed in time to the beat of her heart, and it ached to move. She prayed nothing was broken, though it was hard to tell when everything hurt as much as it did. Twitching her fingers and toes, she tested her arms and legs. “Seems okay.”
With a grunt, she pushed herself upright and smoothed a lock of hair back from her face. A trickle of blood ran down her temple, staining her fingertips red. A deep gash covered the palm of her hand thanks to the piece of porcelain she’d wielded like a knife, and she hissed when she touched the cut.
It took several tries to get to her feet. Finally, she was up, clinging onto the banister for support. Bile pushed up her throat when she spotted Peter’s mangled skull, and she turned away to vomit up her breakfast. It splattered onto her shoes, creating a vile mess.
A low moan and a scrape drew her attention back to the second floor of the house, and a lump formed in her throat. “Frankie?”
The word escaped as a broken whisper, and Dylan shook her head, unwilling to face the facts. Her feet began to move of their own volition and carried her up the stairs. Her hand hung at her side, dripping blood onto the carpet. On top of the landing, she paused as her eyes fixed on a horrible sight. It was Frankie, all