ZOMBIE BOOKS

states by the time of that broadcast.  The girl’s father had acted quickly.  He gathered his family and as much food as their 5th wheel could hold, then took them south of their home in Four Lakes, Washington and into the hills to wait for the cavalry to arrive.
Turnbull was crowded, so they kept east, but everywhere they went there were more people fleeing the cities.  When the horde hit Spokane, a wave of the dead crashed upon the stones of the surrounding cities and towns.  No place became safe.  Uninfected began to despair and commit horrid crimes.  Robbery. Murder. Rape. We’re all dead anyway, right?
The girl’s father kept his family moving.  Her mother. Her two brothers.  They drove until they ran out of fuel.  They camped in the trailer until a gang of men took it from them at gunpoint.  Then they walked.  Always moving. Always a step ahead of the horde.  Taking food from the land and abandoned homes but finding less and less each day.
Then the girl’s little brother fell ill.
The older brother said he would travel to the closest town, Cheney, and see if he could find medicine or someone who could help.
The next day the horde was on them.
It was night.  They were camped on an island in Long Lake.  Zombies weren’t supposed to be able to swim.  Zombies were supposed to drown.  The girl thought she was safe.  Her father told her she was safe. Her mother knelt over the paling body of her brother.  He was sick, but the girl believed he was safe.
They all were.
They were going to be just fine.
The zombies didn’t moan.  They didn’t say anything at all.  Before the girl knew the danger was even there, the family was surrounded.  They just walked up out of the water, right over to the girl’s mother and brother, and pinned them both down with their dripping hands.  The zombies then bit off bulky chunks of flesh while the victims screamed in pain.  Her father awoke to the sounds of his wife and youngest child expiring under a swarm of hungry dead.  Without thinking twice, he scooped up his only daughter and made for the canoe.  Kicking zombies out of his path, the man made it to the boat and placed the girl within it.  The girl was confused and scared, but knew the worst had not occurred until she looked her father in the eyes.  The man winced in pain, said that he was sorry, told her to find her brother, and shoved the canoe with all he had.
“Noooooo!”
The girl watched as the father turned and swung at the zombie holding his leg.  The man grabbed an ax by the fire and began chopping down any zombie within reach.  The girl watched, feelings of horror and hope mixing in her stomach as her father ended six zombies one after the next.  On the seventh, his swing missed.  Off-balance on his injured leg, the man fell to the dirt beside the remnants of his wife and little boy.  The girl cried aloud as the remainder of the horde seized the man who had preserved her for so long in this wilderness and tore him to the bone.
He tried not to scream at first.  He tried to remain silent for his little girl.  But in the end everyone goes shrieking and crying.
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“C’mon you chubby bastard.  Come on.”
I’ve been watching this fat one for a couple hours now, and he’s really starting to piss me off.  He won’t leave the open spaces around the town’s buildings and come up my driveway of zombie death.
When I first started catching and destroying zombies, I would meet one in the open with a net in one hand and a catchpole in the other.  I’d fancy myself a modern gladiator in the pit of life squaring off with a tiger for the roar of the crowds.  That worked well once.  The second time I tried the same stunt I found myself surprised by three extra dead-heads and ended up running for my life.  I learned two things that day.  One: I like being alive.  Two: Always bring the fight to you.  Now I spy a zombie the way a deer hunter spots a buck and waits for the most opportune time to strike.  My battlefield of choice is a loading dock at the milling facility by the rail yard.  On top of the building, I have a crow’s nest that allows me to spot zombies coming from far off and gives me plenty of time to prepare.  Then I lure them onto the loading dock where I can snare the bugger in the net, nab it with the catchpole, and drag it back to the van.
How do I lure them?
It turns out that zombified humans are a lot like spiders: Their vision sucks, so they rely heavily on their other senses.  I put myself above the dock, and they sniff me out.
I don’t mean to brag, but zombies find the smell of my flesh irresistible.  Don’t be jealous.  I’m sure they would love to eat you too, but I’ve seen zombies walk a straight line over a mile to where I am just to end up in the van and on their way to the ranch.
Chubby here trailed my scent from the Cheney Spokane Road, and walked right up to the entrance of the driveway where he stopped, and is now nervously pacing in the street like a kid waiting to use the bathroom.  Anxious. Noisy. Indecisive.  Hands fidgeting.
I know what he’s doing, and it’s making me uneasy.
He keeps looking south down 1st St, and then back to the loading dock.
Not now.
As if Chubb-o has finally made up his mind, he starts the fancy cadaver shuffle down the street and doesn’t look back.
I’ve seen zombies do this a hundred times, and only ever for one reason.
I scramble up the ladder, through the stairwell door, and pop out the roof.  I find Chubby sauntering along 1st, right down the