Holideath Resort (Book Two of the 'Zombino' series)

By Chris Welsh

Wes, Nelson, Susan and Stuart are still trying to escape their forsaken, monster-infested office block. It isn't easy. They've been separated into two groups and left for dead in the middle of nowhere, controlled by a man who doesn't care whether they live or die...so long as he can collect his data.

Zombies, steroid-enhanced brutes and sentient blood-monsters do their best to stop Wes and Stuart escaping, whereas Susan and Nelson must contend with an insane computer AI and at least a dozen versions of the end of the world.

Holideath Resort is Book Two of the Zombino series, and is classed as a novella at 34,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Welsh
• Release date: Aug 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301578481

Chris Welsh

I am a writer from Liverpool, UK. I've written three full novels and a whole bunch of short stories. I try to keep a blog but I'm not very good at it.I like horror, sci fi and absurdist humour. Also, I read a lot of comics.

Book preview

HOLIDEATH

RESORT

Book Two

in the

ZOMBINO

series

by

Chris Welsh

x

HOLIDEATH RESORT

By Chris Welsh

Copyright 2013 Chris Welsh

Smashwords Edition

x

CHAPTER LIST

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

About The Author

More From This Author

Prologue

THE STORY SO FAR

Wes Jetter's day progressed from bad to worse, then to even worse. The same for Susan, Stuart and Nelson. Oh, and everyone else who died.

They didn't have much fun either.

First off, they were in work, in their humdrum day jobs. This required them to travel deep into a forest where the company that employed them had built their office on its own little compound in the middle of nowhere. They travelled by shuttle train from the nearest city, packed on like sardines.

Not long after mid-morning break, Susan dragged Wes to the abandoned top-floor of the building to show him some discomforting documents she'd dug up whilst snooping through encrypted computer files. Stuart, one of two on-duty security guards, followed them, playing 'spy', when things went to shit and, long story short, zombies turned up.

Everyone else in the building below them became a member of the undead.

With escape on their minds, they travelled to the foyer and were, unfortunately, chased into a lift by a large group of rotten corpses. Strangely, the lift wouldn't take them anywhere but back to the top floor. They went, fought a room full of translucent, creepy bug-things and relocated to the roof in the hope of finding a helicopter, a hang-glider – something useful that'd get them down and far away. Instead, they traversed the side of the building in a machine used by window cleaners, and found themselves safely out of the building.

Well, not so safely.

After a run-in with a large mutated zombie, they stumbled into a wholly unassuming outbuilding that hid a large, underground compound, a lab, the home of Nelson's mad scientist mother. She experimented in cloning - more specifically, she experimented in cloning Nelson, because he was always around and she was lazy.

The diligent group escaped, somehow, but lost their version of Nelson in the fracas. Oh, there was a fracas – Nelson's mother bolted and left them to fend off dozens of murderous clones. Luckily, the clones were less stable than a house made of yogurt and wishes, and fell apart with even the slightest show of violence.

Back up top, out of the labs and in the fresh, forest air, Nelson's mother reappeared in a small helicopter taking pot-shots at them with a handgun whilst hovering in mid-air. Things got a little tense. At least, until the real Nelson appeared with a rocket launcher and blew her up, setting fire to the main building and destroying a decorative fountain in the process.

Splitting up briefly, Nelson and Susan hung around the grounds whilst Wes and Stuart investigated the shuttle train they came in on. It was there, lo and behold, and the platform was empty. The intrepid twosome forced their way on, hoping to find some controls to get everyone out of there.

Gunshots ruined their plans. Specifically, gunshots coming from Susan and Nelson, who hot-footed it along the platform followed by a hundred zombies. The group of death was spearheaded by a hulking mutant to whom bullets were less of a nuisance than skin-nibbling midges. They shot and shot but he refused to drop.

Wes and Stuart found themselves trapped on the train, unable to help and unable to let Susan and Nelson aboard. The doors wouldn't budge, windows wouldn't open, not even when Stuart shot at them.

A man's face appeared on the glass, an older man with a white moustache and one crazy eye. After delivering a typically off-kilter, 'mad scientist' speech, using the opaque glass as a video screen to talk directly to Wes and Stuart, he pumped in a sickly gas, knocked them both flat out. One carriage of the train took off with them, after Nelson used his last rocket and accidentally blew up the rear of it.

Oh, and the old man said Wes was an experiment. Whatever that means.

So.

Susan and Nelson are trapped, facing their doom as Wes and Stuart doze peacefully on a departing train full of noxious knock-out gas.

The train veers left onto some hidden tracks, taking them deeper into the forest.

Chapter One – 9:45pm

OH GOD OH GOD WE'RE GOING TO DIE

SUSAN

Zombies approached through the dancing flames of the destroyed train car. In the distance, past the upright corpses and the trees, I saw my former workplace on fire. Smoke billowed up into the night sky and ash flitted down on the breeze.

I didn't think I'd die like this, I said to Nelson, whose big, round cheeks trembled.

My hands flapped like bird wings. In one of them I had my shoes, which clacked like maracas, and in the other I held the strap of a duffel bag that once held a collection of guns, but was now empty. Nelson fired each one until it dried up before tossing them aside. He'd also gone through a few bullet refill things, which I think are called 'clips', and thrown those away too.

"How did you think you'd die?" he asked as we backed away, and for a moment I couldn't answer. I stared past the shambling army to the train with its orange-red flames, and I briefly fantasised about the universe in which Nelson's rocket hadn't woefully missed the target.

Peacefully, I said eventually. In my sleep, dreaming of good things or fun things or things with cute, fluffy tails.

Well, feel free to take a nap now if you'd like. Dream about bunnies. I'll give you a shout if, for some reason, this lot don't tear us apart.

I thought for a moment, then said, Nah, balls to that. I turned and ran, sprinting down the tarmac platform with Nelson in tow, panting like an overweight bloodhound. I thought about taking off into the trees, but brambles and other nasty bushes lined the platform, standing at least to knee level. I'd never have to shave my legs again if I took that route, because I wouldn't have any legs left to shave. The thorns, nettles and razor-sharp leaves would see to that. Who even designed these plants? What sort of prick would d-

My thoughts stalled, interrupted by sound from behind me. Nelson caught up level, wheezing and stumbling but forcing himself onwards, unable to focus his eyes as if he was approaching the finish line of a double marathon. The sound of earthquake-causing footfalls suggested we weren't the only runners on the platform.

Fucker's chasing us! Nelson yelled at a pitch that would frighten dogs, before he tripped and cracked his face open on the unforgiving ground. We were almost at the end of the platform, where it ended abruptly at a six-foot drop to mud and unkempt undergrowth beside the train tracks. Something in my head suggested that if we made it there, and leapt like show horses over the brush, that we'd be safe. That the horde of zombies would stop, skid to the edge, and wave their fists at us as we made a clean, easy getaway.

But Nelson wasn't moving. I slammed on my breaks, and for the first time felt how raw and achy my feet were. The tiny stones and other debris that'd stuck into them formed a chorus of screaming, bloody agony. Nelson struggled with the gun slung around his neck, it caught on his arm as he pushed himself up and sent him down again.

Precious seconds ran away from us. The main party of dead-things were a fair distance back, but the giant one closed in, leaking thick, sludgy blood out of a hundred holes.

Get moving! I screamed, as if the notion wasn't blindingly obvious, but Nelson ignored me. He rolled sideways and sat on his backside, then aimed his empty gun at the beast, redundantly clicking the trigger. The look on his floor-scraped face was one of defiance, as if he sprayed a billion bullets from his gun to save the day. He snapped out of it as the creature slid to a halt a yard from his feet, and blasted out a spit-laden roar which knocked me down.

It punched the floor, denting it, spraying pebbles into the air. It roared again and focussed its eyes on me, ignoring Nelson for the moment. Its red, swollen, hungry eyes sat beneath furrowed brows as thick and hairy as a cat's tail. Its jaw snapped and its mangled teeth clacked together. Everything about it was larger than life, fake somehow, like a computer-altered picture of a muscle-bound weightlifter designed to make skinny guys feel inferior. The thing stood a good three foot taller than any human I'd ever met. It leant forward, supported by huge shovel hands with fingers as thick as my arms. Veins covered it's distorted, stretched skin like bus routes on a map. It could crush me to a powder with one hand, and for a moment, that's what I thought it was going to do.

It roared again, relishing that we cowered at its feet. Its red eyes drilled into me, paralysing me from the inside out. It leant in closer, teeth clenched and dribbling thick saliva.

That’s when I recognised the bastard. A memory, fleeting, sprinted out of my masked brain and into my conscious.

Mark?!

Its face flickered like a broken television as confusion crept in, sneaking underneath the primal fury. It snorted and huffed like a coke-mad gorilla, flaring its nostrils so wide a family of four could move in. It hopped backwards, twisting its neck, examining us like a puppy seeing its reflection for the first time. As I watched, dumbfounded, I saw a bullet drop from its shoulder and the wound zip up. Several more followed suit; the holes spat out the smoking metal chunks and closed over, vanishing as if they'd never been there. Blood stopped leaking like engine oil, and the green-blue-black bruises faded away.

It's getting better, said Nelson, audibly offended at the concept. "After all of my hard