Dead South Series (Book 1): Dead South

ugly bastard onto the ground.
Breathing heavily, Jon stood over his victim. Blood dripped off his bat, and he could feel some on his face. He wiped his forearm across his cheek to confirm it.
On the ground, the creature groaned. It tried to push itself up, but Jon stomped his boot down into the middle of its back.
Closing his eyes, he remembered why he was doing this. Rage filled him as he opened his eyes again and looked down at the helpless creature. Then he raised the bat over his head and, with another scream, brought it down onto the back of the dead thing’s skull. This crack was more of a splat as Jon’s bat split the thing’s skull and crushed it.
The zombie quivered for several moments, but then it ceased moving altogether.
Jon breathed heavily as he stared down at the creature, drops of blood dripping down his face. Another kill to his name.
He didn’t know how many in total he had killed. He kept nothing from the creatures to help him keep track. Like naming the blood-stained bat, collecting trophies from his kills would have been the work of a psychopath.
Jon didn’t need to be reminded of each of his kills.
He only needed to remember why he hunted.
He only needed to remember them.

2
Jon stepped out of the woods and arrived back at his motorcycle. He’d hidden the black cruiser behind a faded metal sign on the side of the road advertising a place called Dale’s Country Kitchen. Reaching into his saddlebag, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face. When he pulled it away, Jon saw the blood from the zombie, but his face felt cleaner. He tossed the towel into a small bag to keep it from soiling the inside of his saddlebag before stowing it away again.
Glancing up at the sun in the sky, he guessed it was around four in the afternoon. He was still getting used to telling the time this way, and had nearly looked at his wrist instead. His watch had died months ago, and he hadn’t gone out of his way to look for batteries. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a working battery.
Jon decided it was probably best to turn in for the evening. He closed his saddlebag and hopped onto his bike.
Gripping the handles, he started the cruiser and revved the engine, feeding it gas. Out in front of him was nothing but an open backcountry road, and he’d enjoy the short three-mile ride back to his house.
Jon was about to pull away when he felt the presence of something or someone. Like he was being watched.
He looked over his shoulder.
About twenty-five yards away, he saw three people standing on the side of the road, staring at him. They appeared to be a family, the man and woman a little bit younger than Jon, with a teenage girl standing with them.
The man locked eyes with Jon, then he said something to his wife, and they turned their backs and hastily retreated into the woods. Jon watched them disappear before looking forward again.
He revved the engine once more before taking off down the open road ahead.
The cabin sat at the top of a hill a mile off of the main road. That was part of why Jon hadn’t been bothered by other people in the area. He had seen some travelers on the highways when hunting in the area, but he’d rarely seen any near his cabin.
He rode his bike up the dirt driveway to a detached workshop which served as a garage for his motorcycle. Jon stored some other items inside, as well, but left his most valuable assets, such as weapons, inside of the cabin.
After putting his bike away, Jon headed inside. He went through his regular routine after each hunt. Everything had a place, most of which were in his bedroom. He hung the keys to his bike on a hook just inside the door. Then he opened a trunk on the floor where he kept his weapons and ammunition, along with some other personal items. He took the hatchet off his back and added it to the chest's contents before shutting it.
He removed the bat next and leaned it against the bedside table. Along with a .22 pistol sitting on top of the table, he usually kept the bat there in case he heard an intruder during the night.
Before leaving his bedroom, he grabbed a cigar box off of the dresser. It was tan with a red border around the outside of the cover, a Caribbean-style logo designed in the middle of the box. He stared at it for a moment before heading out of the room.
Jon made his way to the back of the house and removed his coat. He opened the back door and tossed it over a chair, wanting to keep the wretched smell of death outside until he could wash it. That could wait until morning. He closed and locked the door, and then went into the kitchen.
The whiskey bottle sat on the counter, right where he’d left it the night before. He’d found the bottle a couple of weeks ago while scavenging a shed. There was enough of the brown stuff left for a couple of shots, but Jon didn’t need to dirty another glass. He grabbed the whole bottle and headed out to the front porch.
Sitting down in one of the two rocking chairs, Jon placed the cigar box in his lap and the bottle on the table next to him. He unscrewed the top off the bottle and tossed back some of the liquor. The whiskey burned his throat, but that was a sensation that never grew old, and he stared at the box. Putting down the bottle, Jon lifted the box’s lid.
He pulled out the picture which lay on top and stared at it. The man staring back at him was so familiar, yet so distant. Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled, and yet he