Zombies! An Undead Bundle

By Luke Shephard

4 Full Novels of Zombies!

Colony Z

When the Undead have taken over America, one group of survivors find safety by escaping to a remote, unsettled island.

There they work to rebuild society, while trying to survive whatever it is that is after them.

Alone and isolated, their relative peace and safety is shattered when a group of Others shows up on their island and their leaders must make life-altering choices in the blink of an eye.

This is only the beginning. This is their story.

Bishop’s Isle

Life as a lighthouse keeper on a remote Scottish island isn't always the most exciting. Especially since she split with her husband, Mark. Yet, Holly loves her job, her friends, and her life on Bishop's Isle.

Until, one day, strange...things start to wash ashore. Dangerous things she has never seen before. Frightening things that nobody else on the island can explain.

Now, Holly, and the rest of islanders, must overcome a whirlwind of troubles and use her lighthouse to try and signal for help, and hope against hope that somebody sees her, and the island's, desperate plea in time...

Can they reach safety? Or will they be overtaken by the Undead...?

Plague Z

Siblings Alexi and Irina had always been safe in their small town, far away from the dangers of Plague Z, a horrific new disease that seems to be terrorizing Russia. Until now. When it finally enters into their lives, they are forced to make drastic decisions with life or death consequences..

Hoping to catch a flight to America where the infection hasn’t reached, they travel to the airport in a city that is three hours away. They need to escape before either of them becomes infected. Nothing is really known about Plague Z, so they don’t know exactly what dangers might be involved.

They only know they need to get out before it’s too late.

Will they be able to make the flight and escape?

All they can hope is that freedom waits for them on the other side of the water...

Z Walkers

Hank, Collin, and Sara. A janitor, a thief, a personal trainer.

Three strangers in an increasingly strange city come together in an attempt to survive. With the infected crawling out of every crevice, they need to get to safety--now. Each wants a different direction: Hank still waits for his lady love to arrive so that they can head north, while Sara wants to get on a boat and get out onto the open waters. Collin...well, Collin just wants to be the aloof dangerous guy in a zombie apocalypse.

Little do they know, each of their best-laid plans is going to hit a rocky detour, and there's no telling just who will get out of everything alive.

Will any of them make it to safety before it's too late? Or will they end up just like the other mindless zombies beginning to fill the streets…?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Our Pack Press
• Release date: Jan 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781513095905

Book preview

Z Walkers

Collin– Episode 1

Why is it that people in the suburbs feel confident enough to leave their fucking windows open? Was there something in the air that made them inherently stupid, or had all the open spaces and kids parks and ice cream trucks lulled them into a false sense of security?

Whatever the case may be, Collin wasn’t complaining. If idiots, like the ones who lived at 11 Maplewood Drive, didn’t leave their windows open, his job would have been a lot harder. He’d have to bust a window or break the lock on the back door instead, thus leaving an incriminating trail behind as he cleaned out their secret cash jars and gaudy jewelry boxes. He didn’t want to do any of those things. He’d already been to juvie, and he wasn’t about to face the big leagues now that—as of his last birthday—he was old enough for a real prison sentence.

Gripping his bike’s handlebars, he inhaled the warm spring air as he whizzed down the quiet suburban lane. A backpack sat squarely on his shoulders—empty. A Knicks cap hid his face from curious onlookers. He wanted to look ordinary, like he belonged in any one of these cookie cutter houses. Most people remembered a strange car cruising their block, but no one paid attention to some kid on a bike. He looked young enough to be mistaken for a high school kid. Anyone who saw would probably think he was a local senior cutting class on his few final days.

High school was a distant, unpleasant memory. Collin had been decent at shop and math, but nothing ever held his interest. College was out of the question—like he or his parents could afford to put him through a couple extra years of education. The job market was tough. Everyone was looking and nobody was hiring. Flipping burgers was degrading.

Robbing houses was quick cash. Easy money. He never took stuff that looked sentimental. Old jewelry wasn’t a big hit in pawnshops anyway: people would rather have new, expensive-looking pieces on his end of town. Cash and gold, those were his targets. The cash he kept, the gold he sold, and he hadn’t had to flip a single burger all year.

There was this girl, Claire, who worked at the pharmacy up the road from his apartment. She was pure class, a real lady, on two long beautiful legs.

Or so he assumed. He usually only saw her on the other side of the counter. But she had a killer smile and always laughed at his jokes, and he was this close to getting her to agree to go out with him. He’d spent most of the last haul on a new gaming console, and when Claire finally agreed to let him take her out, he wanted to spoil her.

11 Maplewood Drive looked the same as three other houses on alternating streets. Most of these places were replicas of one another, just scattered at intervals to give some semblance of variety. This one, his target for the afternoon, was a two-story home with a single garage and a fenced-in backyard. He’d biked passed it dozens of times in the last week. Lots of windows. A flimsy screen door. A gate into the backyard that was both hidden from the street view and on the verge of falling apart.

It’d be a breeze. Leaning to the right, he eased his bike off the road and up the driveway, slowing his pedaling and fingering the brakes to cut his speed. He’d leave his bike by the back gate, and his entryway would be the propped open kitchen window overlooking the backyard.

He listened the axels and wheels clack as the bike finally slowed to a stop, and he climbed off gracefully, purposefully. He’d learned a long time ago to move like he belonged somewhere, even if he didn’t, and he always had a story.

The family that lived here, with the parents and two kids, were on vacation. He’d figured that out when the mail started to pile up on the front stoop, and, on the few runs he’d made by the place over the last week, Collin had brought it inside. If anyone asked, he’d been hired to bring in the mail and tend to the plants. You know, like a real job.

Why these people would take a vacation in the middle of the school year, around a time with no holidays or special events, was beyond him. But if they had the money to bounce out of the suburbs for a week, they could probably spare the few hundred bucks Collin anticipated finding inside.

Although the fence was high, he was more than able to reach the lock on top. A few wiggles later, Collin had flipped the thing open and could push the gate open like he owned the place. His bike found a home against the light, glossy wood, and he left the gate slightly ajar on the off-chance that he’d need to make a hasty retreat.

There it was, the kitchen window. Must have been a nice view to do the dishes in front of. He’d never had a backyard, but if he ever did, he’d want it to look like this. Manicured lawn. Garden greens in the far corner. A covered patio made a grey slate, each stone fit perfectly to form some intricate design. Patio furniture that wasn’t plastic.

A frown crept across his lips. Cheeks sucked in, Collin cleared his throat and spat on the beautiful green lawn.

Fuck you.

He drew in a deep breath, cracked his neck, and then pushed the window open as wide as it would go. Once he was sure there were no eyes on him—the backyard ended where the ravine began, so he didn’t have to worry about neighbors from that direction—he hoisted himself up and through the opening. As usual, he climbed over a spotless sink and into an equally spotless kitchen. All the mail he’d collected sat next to the toaster. He’d only ever poked his head through that open window, getting rid of the mail to keep his story up, but never lingering.

The adrenaline boost he got when he had both feet squarely on the ground of a house was better than any drug out there. When he was first starting, sometimes he thought the only reason he robbed uppity places like this was for the thrill of it. These people might be better than him in the eyes of society, but right now, right here, he had the advantage.

Hanging baskets of fruit and stainless steel appliances greeted him, like most places in well-off suburbs. A decent kitchen table, one with a removable middle section to make it bigger, and a fridge littered with childish art and A+ reports stared back at him as he waited for his hands to stop trembling. His stomach rumbled. No one would notice if he grabbed a quick bite to each, but he knew better than to smear his fingerprints all over the place. Before he started, Collin pulled a pair of cheap plastic gloves out of his pockets, and then helped himself to the softly rumbling fridge.

Humph. Basically empty. He briefly examined a hunk of cheese that looked like it was molding, then swiped a chocolate pudding cup for later.

When he was through, he went for the jewelry first: it was always the easiest to find. The house had a pretty basic layout. Easy to navigate. Living room, dining room, kitchen, and half-bath on the first floor. Four bedrooms upstairs, one of which functioned as both an office and, given the look of the couch, a guest bedroom. Another two bathrooms up here, one as an en-suite off the master bedroom. It was there he found the jewelry box, which he carefully opened and picked through in silence.

Not a great haul, all things considering. He’d managed to take a few gold rings, a couple of necklaces, and some tucked away broaches that may have diamonds in them, but he couldn’t be sure. When he was finished, he closed the small brown box, which sat in its conspicuous location on top of the waist-high dresser. The husband had a few watches too—fancy ones at that—and Collin threw every single one in his backpack.

Now, the cash would be a little harder to get at. He found piggybanks in the kids’ rooms, which combined had about a hundred dollars in coins. An hour of searching for some hidden safe proved fruitless, but he found a rainy day fund jar in the garage—five hundred dollars in bills.

Guys who stole TVs were chumps. He had hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars in his possession, and yet his backpack looked almost the same now as it did when he hoisted himself through the window.

Still, the house had a couple of great TVs. A few of his friends were in the business of petty theft... Maybe he could convince them to come back and wait behind the fence in the ravine. It’d be a riskier steal, but if he and someone else could get the TVs over the fence, they could probably carry them out to a van parked at a safe distance...

He ran a hand along the top of the flat-screen in the living room. It was mounted to the wall, he noted, peering behind it with a concentrated look. Might make it a little more difficult to move at first, but there were three other screens around the house that he and a few guys could easily take.

Maybe. He wasn’t exactly keen on letting anyone in on his operation. People are idiots. They make mistakes. Partners talk. Friends bail. It was worth considering if he didn’t get as much for the cash and jewelry as he wanted—and it would have to be done at night. Anyone glancing into the backyard from a nearby window would definitely see a couple guys hauling TVs across the lawn.

Wonder what kind of picture this thing gets? He posed the question to no one in particular, obviously, and searched the wicker basket on the coffee table for the right remote. Three remotes. Who the fuck needs three remotes for anything? The first turned on the ceiling fan, and the second brought the fireplace roaring to life. The third, thankfully, managed to get the TV going, but Collin immediately found himself faced with a blank screen and a hovering menu with various HDMI hook-up options. What? Come on...

With a slight roll of his eyes, he started flipping through his options, eyebrows furrowed as he studied the various buttons on the black rectangle in his hand, then nearly dropped the remote when a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air. He looked up sharply, expecting to find the screen on and playing some horror slasher flick, but there was nothing—dark, blank, mocking. Gripping the remote, he went for the window, creeping along the walls to avoid being seen. The floor-length green curtains were pushed back, revealing a fancy bay window with a reading bench built in.

No sign of the source of the scream. He frowned: had he imagined it? Was the house playing tricks on him? Was someone fucking with him?

A quick scan of the vacant downstairs living room, which opened up into the hall that led to the garage, plus the stairs, told him he was alone.

Another scream. He dropped to his knees and peered out the window, remote forgotten on the ground by his feet. It had been a man’s scream this time, equally horrific and just as panicked. Collin swallowed down hard, pushing the fearful knot in his throat down as best he could.

What the fuck? he breathed, fingertips pressed into the little cushion on the ledge. He peered through the pristine bay windows, his breath coming out in uneven stutters. Had he just heard a murder? A part of him wanted to call the cops, but they’d trace the call back to this house—the house he was currently in the middle of robbing.

A woman’s scream echoed from the house next door, and he pushed himself even flatter when the source of sound came falling down the driveway. Bloodied. A wound on her neck was gushing red, painting her ivory skin and soaking her t-shirt. She almost made it to the curb before falling flat on her face, and then she was very still.

"Jesus Christ..."

He’d seen fights before, sure, but he’d never seen somebody walk away from one looking like that. Running for the phone seemed like a more pressing idea—she needed an ambulance, or she was going to bleed out on the street. However, before he could even try to use his wobbly legs, the woman was joined by someone else.

Slowly, a shuffling figure stumbled toward the woman, arms limp and legs awkward. The guy looked drunk, but Collin cursed out loud and ducked down when he saw the guy’s face. Red liquid dripped from his mouth to his chin, and he looked a pasty yellow-green. Sick. The guy was sick—in more ways than one, apparently.

Crouched down beneath the bay window, Collin shut his eyes tight when the screaming started up again, and he didn’t have the stomach to see what the guy was doing to her.

He’d heard this kind of shit before, the stuff that sends people to psychiatrists and doctors later in life—the stuff that gives you nightmares. He’d heard a woman being attacked in an alley when he was ten, and he’d listened to a brawl in the apartment above him two weeks ago. He’d seen fights on TV. He’d beat the shit out of hookers in a video game.

Nothing had ever sounded like this. Nothing could compare to the shrieks he heard at that very moment.

Run. Get out of the house. Hop the fence in the backyard—who gives a fuck if they see you? These were all great suggestions, but for some reason, he couldn’t put any weight on his legs. His feet were numb, his palms sweaty. His whole body seemed to weigh a hundred pounds more than it should, and try as he might, Collin just couldn’t get himself moving.

Not until the screaming stopped.

And it did stop. Eventually. The woman’s voice probably gave out. She probably gave out.

A string of expletives flowed passed his lips as he forced his body to move, peering up and over the window ledge. The guy was gone, and the woman was still on her stomach. Blood everywhere. Painting the white curb. It looked like he’d ripped a clump of her scalp off: there was a sizeable chunk of brown hair missing, though it could have been buried beneath the blood.

Fuck. Okay. Okay. Just get out of here.

He was about to make a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing his bag on the way and hopping out the back window, when something else caught his eye. Arms falling to his side, Collin stared, open mouthed, as a whole cluster of green-yellow-faced fuckers lumbered down the street. They too were bloodied, but they seemed unfazed by it. Slack-jawed and limping, they meandered aimlessly. Suddenly, there were more screams. A car raced out of a garage a few houses over, and queasiness took hold of him when it mowed down a couple of the sick guys in the street.

He gagged when several got back onto their feet after the collision, walking on what were probably broken and shattered bones.

Was this some kind of protest gone wrong? Had he missed a memo that psychos were staging a parade in suburbia today? Nope. Nope, not sticking around to see how it unfolds. He shook his head and staggered backward, nearly falling over the coffee table in the process. A sharp pain shot through his shin, and he ducked down and scooped up his backpack, flinging it over his shoulder.

There was no need to be quiet now. The whole neighborhood was suddenly up in arms, and it sounded like a warzone out there—no one was going to give a shit if they saw some kid running out of a house that wasn’t his.

The main road was out. Even if those sickies weren’t moving very fast, Collin wasn’t about to risk weaving through them on his bike. Like breaking-and-entering, his escape needed to be unseen and unheard. Afterward, he planned to barricade himself in his apartment and drink until he couldn’t remember that woman on the driveway.

Alcohol probably wouldn’t be enough to get those screams out of his dreams though. He shivered at the thought, then braced himself on the kitchen counter, ready to hop up and crawl out the open window.

His arms buckled, however, when he saw several pairs of hands groping along the top of the fence. Bloody hands with pasty skin. A whole bunch of them. Damn it. They were in the fucking ravine too?

He slammed the window shut and hastily did up the latch, something the owners of this house definitely should have done before they left for their stupid holiday. Then, just to be extra safe, he let the blinds cascade down and turned the little plastic rod to keep them shut.

Okay. Okay, so they were in front of the house and behind it. Okay. He’d played enough apocalyptic video games to have some kind of idea how to handle himself in a situation like this.

Right?

Collin remained perfectly still in the kitchen for a long time, his feet numb and his breathing coming out in ragged gasps.

Gotta call the cops. He didn’t want to, but the whole situation was getting out of hand, and there was no way any of these soft suburbanites could handle what was out there. After fishing his phone out of his backpack, he pinched himself a few times. Not dreaming, not high, and definitely not drunk.

This was his reality.

He punched in that three-digit number, the one he never wanted to call unless absolutely necessary, and held his phone to his ear. Ringing. Ringing. Did it normally take so long for someone to answer? More ringing. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and kept on waiting. What if people had a serious crisis? Say some asshole was beating some kid’s mom to death? Was he just supposed to wait on the line until someone at the police department decided to answer the phone?

No wonder people hated cops.

The ringing continued as he padded through the house and made sure the rest of the windows were shut. He also drew the blinds and triple-checked all the doors. Locked. Secure. Safe—theoretically. Everything this house should have been when this family went away for vacation. If it had been, maybe Collin wouldn’t have been here today. Maybe he would have decided that this neighborhood was too bolted up and he needed to hit something different. Something. Anything.

Hey, as long as he was blaming outside influences, he might as well blame his parents. If they hadn’t screwed around so much when he was a kid, maybe there’d be a college fund for him. It was midday during the school week—he could have been in some class that would in some way shape his very existence.

Instead, he was robbing a house on a street with bloodied-up freaks and blood-curdling screams from neighbors. Tires screeched passed the house, accompanied by the thuds of more bodies.

He couldn’t listen to the ringing anymore. It was better than the screaming, sure, but it grated his fraught nerves almost as bad.

Gripping his phone in one clenched hand, he made his way through the house. Passed the downstairs bathroom and the miniscule laundry room, Collin unlocked a heavyset door and dragged it open. Darkness greeted him, and adrenaline pounded through his limbs as he groped the nearby wall for a light switch.

Damn it. He muttered the words softly as the bright white light flickered to life, revealing a neat and organized garage—empty, car gone. He stepped down onto the cement block, his hands on his hips, and surveyed the sledding equipment strung up on the wall, woodworking tools on a small wooden desk, and bikes hanging from the steeped ceiling. He’d hoped for a car. It seemed to be the most effective method to get out of here, and neighbors had already proven that it was a good way to smash the freaks outside and get away untouched.

The temperature difference between the house and the garage was noticeable, and he rubbed at his bare arms, now covered in little bumps from the chill.

Maybe this was for the best. Sure, he would have been stealing a car to potentially save his life, but he wasn’t sure if he could make the jump from petty jewelry thief to automotive bandit.

Would have been nice though. He could have been in a completely different suburb by now. He could have been home. Shaking his head, he made a move for the tools, only to yelp and leap back when something scuttled over his foot.

A pair of rats peered up at him, and he wondered if they judged him for squealing like a fucking girl. Collin glared back, then kicked out at them. The pair scattered, scuttling toward the cement block under the door and squishing in behind it.

Good thing no one was around to see that. His reputation would never recover. Swallowing hard, he stomped over to the tools and looked through them. He handled each one, gauging its weight and handle-ability before pocketing a hammer and a screwdriver. There were a few knives in the kitchen that would probably do him some good—these sorts of people didn’t strike him as the type to have a gun.

The cavalry was probably already on their way. After all, the 911 line had been busy for ten years when he called, which had to mean other people in the neighborhood had looked outside and seen shit hitting the fan. All he had to do was hunker down and wait it out. Make sure none of those bloody freaks found their way into the house, and wait. He could see it now: in an hour, the whole street would be covered in SWAT guys and people in biohazard suits. They’d load up all the freaks, scrape that lady off the driveway, interview and silence potential witnesses (maybe with cash, he thought excitedly), and call it a day.

He just had to be patient.

Collin could do that. He could be patient for something like this.

He flinched when something slammed into the garage door. A cold sweat broke out across his neck and lower back, and he wasn’t about to sit around to see what was making all the noise. Phone in his pocket and tools in hand, he bounded back to the interior of the house and slammed the door behind him. After making sure it was locked, he grabbed the little shelving unit from the laundry room and stuffed it under the doorknob. Even if someone managed to bust the lock, at least there’d be an extra layer of something between him and a freak.

It probably would have been better to find a way to keep his new weapons handy, but Collin preferred having his hands free. The hammer sat nicely in the belt loop of his jeans, but the screwdriver and the pair of knives he grabbed from the kitchen found a new home at the bottom of his backpack.

Then, just to be safe, he pushed furniture in front of all the first-floor doorways. Sure, they were all locked—chain-locked, in the case of the front door—but Collin wasn’t about to take any chances. The number of freaks had doubled since he last looked out the window, looking bloodier and sicker than ever. The woman on the driveway was gone, a pool of dried blood left behind as evidence that she had, in fact, been brutally attacked right before Collin’s eyes.

After watching the freaks meander around on the front lawn for a bit, he grabbed his stuff and headed for the second floor. There was less of a chance of anyone spotting him there, and he could watch the scene unfold from a relatively safe place.

The master bedroom also had a bay window overlooking the street, with lacy curtains and a plush pillow stretched across the bench. Setting his backpack on the floor, Collin gently closed the bedroom door before climbing onto the bench. Legs drawn to his chest, he waited. He watched. He tried to see if he recognized any neighbors he’d seen on his bike rides through the neighborhood, but every... person down there was too fucked up to make a clear ID.

Doesn’t matter. None of it did. Those freaks could stumble onto porches or throw themselves into garage doors all they wanted—the cops were going to be here soon, and then the party would be over. Cops always killed it. They brought down the hammer of the law and spoiled everyone’s fun. In this case, Collin could do with a little fun-dampening.

And so he waited.

And waited.

And, just for kicks, he waited a little more. He watched the horde of bumbling freaks thicken and swell as the day went on, the shifting sun casting stretching shadows behind them. The freaks didn’t really do anything—unless they saw a normal person. Anytime someone ventured outside, Collin watched with rapt fascination as the freaks descended upon that poor soul. Like circling buzzards, they moved with more precision than he’d seen since they arrived. Screams followed, and Collin quickly became accustomed to shoving his fingertips so far into his ears that he was sure he’d popped an eardrum.

Daylight wasn’t especially long in the springtime, but it lasted until just after six in the evening—and even then, the cavalry hadn’t arrived. Once, at about four, a helicopter whizzed overhead. It flew low and loud, and even though it didn’t land anywhere nearby, it caught a couple of the freaks’ attention. Collin’s heart had sank into his stomach as he’d watched it fly away, but watching some of the herd meander after it had lifted his spirits somewhat.

But only somewhat. Night fell, and he soon came to realize he was trapped in suburbia. Alone—just him and the freaks.

Jaw clenched, he climbed off the bay window bench and padded across the bedroom. His stomach emitted a series of angry gurgles, and he figured there was no point in going hungry if he was going to be there for a while. Navigating an almost unfamiliar house at night was no easy task. He bumped his toe on the staircase railing. He tripped over a hallway rug. He nearly had a heart attack when he caught his reflection in the upstairs bathroom mirror.

But he eventually found himself in the kitchen, leaving all the lights off to avoid any unwanted attention. He gulped at the sound of groans in the backyard—apparently the freaks made noise too. Pleased he’d shut the curtains earlier in the day, he cracked open the fridge, then swore softly. Just like before, there wasn’t much in the way of food, but he could make do with what was there for a night.

His dinner consisted of the chocolate pudding cup he’d swiped earlier, bits and pieces of the molded hunk of cheese, and a half-warmed can of beans he’d dug out of the cupboards. Collin ate at the table, in the dark, wishing he had something else to listen to other than the groans.

At least they were better than the screams. The night was free of those, though he heard something that sounded like a dog’s yelp when he was setting his used dishes in the sink. He dropped the plate, the noisy clatter of ceramic sending a chilly shiver down his spine.

Fuck. Apparently no one—and nothing—was off-limits to these freaks.

Still shaking, he moved through the house and checked all the doors and windows again, then barricaded himself in the living room in front of that flashy flat-screen, ears primed for the welcome sounds of sirens.

***

Unfortunately, it wasn’t sirens that woke Collin. Arms crossed over his chest, he drifted out of a dreamless sleep to find his neck sore.

After spending much of the night fortifying the house, he’d crashed on the living room couch with the hope of getting a few good hours of sleep. At the time, it had seemed inappropriate to sleep in any of the beds. Sure, he was robbing the place, but sleeping in the master bed just felt weird and wrong. Like he was overstepping his bounds. He related the act to rooting through the lady of house’s underwear drawer—creepy.

As he groaned and tilted his head to the side, he found himself wishing he had climbed into one of those cushy beds upstairs. He probably wouldn’t have woken up with a crick in his neck from sleeping at a weird angle on some rock-hard pillow. A dull ache radiated from his lower back too, and he assumed he hadn’t done much in the way of tossing and turning while he slept.

The less sleep-addled his brain became, the more he realized he hadn’t been roused by the aches and pains across his body. Eyes still closed, he slowly deduced that a sound was grating at his ears. Like nails on a chalkboard, something in this house was screeching. He drew in a deep breath, then wriggled his pinky in both ears. Hoping to clear out the sound with a good cleaning, Collin wiped the earwax he pulled out on his pants, then sighed again. The screeching was still there, like a cat stuck on the other side of a bedroom door, eager to get in.

Rats, maybe? Had they found a way in from the garage?

Opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling, enveloped in darkness, Collin wiped the damp drool from the corners of his mouth, then yawned. He sat up with another groan, feeling like some grandpa who needed help getting off the couch. His groan jumped six octaves higher, however, when he found the source of the screeching.

There, on the other side of the downstairs bay window, was a freak. She quickened her pace when they made eye contact, her bloody lips suctioned to the glass and her busted-up nails clawing at the windowpanes. Panicked, Collin crab-walked back until he had mounted the couch’s armrest and fallen to the floor on the other side. To his credit, he was too terrified to curse, though every single fucking expletive he knew was flying through his mind as he cowered out of sight.

The scratching increased, like she was using both hands now, and he heard a low moan through the glass.

He thought he’d done a good enough job covering all the windows, but apparently less than a foot of space was all that freak needed to watch him sleep. How long had she been there? How could she see him in the dark?

After making sure he hadn’t shit his pants, Collin crawled around the back of the couch, then slithered across the floor on his stomach. Moving ever closer to the window, he did his best to stay out of the freak’s line of sight. Then, when he had his chance, he reached up, grabbed the base of the curtain, and pulled it completely closed.

Apparently freak women hated being ignored just as much as real women. As soon as they could no longer see each other, she started pounding on the glass, her moans escalating to throaty yodels.

Fuck, he hissed, scrambling to his feet. Sure, glass wasn’t as easy to break as they made it out to be in the movies, but if she beat at it long and hard enough, she’d probably break through.

And he was not about to go out there in the middle of the night to look for a newer, safer hiding spot. No way. No fucking thank you.

All he needed to do was get her fixated on something else. He’d sent clingier ex-girlfriends running in the past, and they were probably only just smarter than some of these freaks.

Hammer in hand, Collin tiptoed across the living room toward the staircase. The new wood still managed to creak as he climbed up, and he winced at a particularly noisy crack on the second step from the top. Every strange sound tugged at his nerves, pulling and plucking and yanking to the point where he just wanted to curl up somewhere and sleep the night away.

But there was no way in hell he could do that if some freak was trying to get in.

He soon found himself in the master bedroom, which overlooked the lawn. Somewhere below, she was trying to get in. Even one floor up, he could still hear her nails on the windows—the sound send chills running up and down his spine. Luckily, he found what he needed in the ensuite bathroom: shampoo and conditioner containers, heavy-set combs, glasses cases, perfume bottles. They were all heavy enough to get someone’s attention—or so he hoped.

Climbing up onto the bay window, he carefully undid all the locks, then opened the window. Thankfully there was no screen, though he probably could have cut through one easy enough. He grabbed one of the glass perfume bottles first, then hurled it toward the street with everything he had. As expected, the glass shattered on impact, littering the street with tiny scented shards. The freak didn’t come running after the first one he threw, but it only took three more to finally get her attention.

Collin paused mid-throw when he spotted her lumbering across the lawn, abandoning the downstairs window for something more interesting. He bit the insides of his cheeks hard, adrenaline pulsating through his body, and continued to lob more bathroom products into the street. It was working—she was interested, definitely.

The bloody freak moved stiffly, like she couldn’t get her arms and legs to cooperate with each other. Stilted. Slow. But not to be underestimated—the woman’s screams from earlier in the day still rung in his ears.

He ended up clocking her in the head with a metallic glasses case, and Collin stifled his laughter as she staggered to the side, groaning. The freak didn’t seem to understand where the object had come from: she looked up once she regained her footing, bloodied mouth slack, the street lights illuminating her sickly features. It was just as well that she didn’t look back to the house. As much fun as it would have been to pelt her with household goods all night, he didn’t want or need her meandering back to the house to investigate.

If she could investigate. If all freaks were this dim, he may just have a chance.

Once he’d run out of things to chuck out into the street, he closed the window, locked it, then yanked the curtains shut. With his trusty hammer in hand, he navigated through the dark house, making his way to the downstairs bay window to check the curtains. Closed. No foot of space for a freak to watch him sleep anymore. With all the streetlamps blocked out for good now, Collin stood in the pitch-black room, his eyes only barely adjusted to the light, and suddenly found he was short of breath.

Taking in a few gulps of air, he turned on the spot and realized he couldn’t crawl back onto the couch. There was no way he’d be able to fall asleep there, not with the sight he’d woken up to. Instead, he groped around awkwardly until he found his backpack, then slowly worked his way back to the stairs, running the last few steps when something thudded against the front door.

He’d left a few of the upstairs curtains open, mostly from the kids’ rooms, and the dim lighting trickled into the hall like a welcomed guide.

It still didn’t feel right about sleeping in any of the beds, and he didn’t have it in him to see if the pullout couch was easy to assemble. Thankfully, he wasn’t unaccustomed to sleeping on the floor: he’d passed out drunk on enough of his friends’ floors to know that he could do it if necessary. So, while sleeping under the covers was weird, sleeping under the beds was actually probably one of the smarter decisions he’d made tonight. If any of the freaks somehow managed to get in, he had serious doubts they’d look under beds for people.

And when the cops did their sweep, he’d hopefully be out of sight—and out of mind—until they were finished.

With a few grunts and grumbles, Collin got down and crawled under the luxurious master bed, glaring when his hair got caught in the springs. There was just enough space for him to curl up on his side, and he used his arm as a pillow. The carpet was surprisingly soft, but maybe that shouldn’t be a surprise. He was used to carpets so thin that they were practically the same as linoleum tiles. This was something else entirely. He smoothed his hand over the fabric, oddly pleased with its consistency.

Cradling the hammer to his chest, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. In the morning, there’d be cops everywhere. There’d be SWAT and FBI guys storming houses and shooting the shit out of freaks.

Unfortunately, it seemed like sleep just wasn’t in the cards for the night. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that woman with her mouth pressed to the glass, looking like she wanted to eat him—literally.

Fuck.

***

Collin woke with a sharp intake of air, his hips and shoulders in agony. Four days of sleeping under the fucking bed, too terrified to leave himself exposed while he dozed, had left him with aches and pains all over his body. On top of the physical hurt, he was just plain exhausted. Anytime he tried to sleep, his nightmares decided to creep back in and scare him into the waking world.

Four days.

Four fucking days with nothing but freaks loitering around the neighborhood, not a cop in sight. He’d seen that helicopter once, a few days back, but since then, nothing. Nothing but screaming neighbors who tried to make a run for it, and the freaks who eventually caught them. He must have been losing his mind, but last night, as the freaks caught a guy probably only a few years younger than him, he thought they were hunting in packs—maybe working together.

But that was crazy. He’d wasted a few hours pelting freaks with more crap from around the house, and they still had no idea where it was all coming from. They might have looked like people, but they weren’t all there when it came to smarts.

Unless they saw another person. Well, then they were on the ball, headed toward any normal non-freak with a honed-in focus that was really unnerving.

He blinked up at the metal springs, his vision slowly coming back in the darkness. Four nights under this damn bed. Jesus Christ. He didn’t have it in him do it for a fifth. Wincing, he edged toward the left side, then crawled to the en-suite bathroom. On his way out after, his head rolled back and he let out an audible groan: it wasn’t even 6 am yet. All this hiding around and having nightmares had totally fucked with his sleep schedule.

Ahh, hammer—his one true companion. He tucked the wooden grip into his belt loop, then spared a peek behind the curtains. Dawn. A dreamy purple-blue painted the sky, the streetlights giving off a warm yellow glow. Oh, and look at the freaks. He squinted, careful not to ruffle the fabric too much. There were definitely more now than there was when he last checked.

Great. Awesome.

Rolling his eyes, he gently set the curtain back in place before making his way downstairs. No chance in hell he was opening anything to let the impending sunlight in. Nope. The weather had been swell for the last four days, but Collin hadn’t felt a single ray: all the windows stayed blocked off and the doors stayed bolted until the lazy-ass cops got their act together and cleared out the neighborhood.

He paused on the bottom step, suddenly realizing that there was a chance the family might come back sometime soon.

Nah. Any sane person would take one look at this street and bolt in the opposite direction. If the family of 11 Maplewood Drive knew what was good for them, they’d stay exactly where they were until this shitstorm blew over.

Although his growling stomach would have preferred he make his way to the kitchen first, he veered off to the flat-screen in the living room. Two days ago, he’d finally figured out how to get the damn thing working. Remote in hand, he turned the screen on and went through the usual routine of getting to the satellite option.

His eyes narrowed. While many of the channels worked, all the local news broadcasts were out of commission. Met with the multi-colored bars and high-pitched ringing, Collin flipped to another station. Someone needed to be making some announcements here. A whole neighborhood was fucked and no one commented on it?

Something wasn’t right.

He could settle for early morning cartoons though. Collin lingered for a moment, smiling at the slapstick gags, their volume low, then shuffled into the kitchen. No lights. He knew this house well enough to navigate it in the dark now.

The light from the fridge was bright enough to help him find whatever he couldn’t anyway. Unfortunately, no amount of bright light could change the sight before him: totally empty shelves. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Even the molding hunk of cheese had been used in last night’s dinner. All the pudding cups were gone, along with the few frozen meals in the freezer.

All he had left was a single measly can of chickpeas. Great. Who the fuck eats chickpeas?

Grumbling, he plopped down in front of the early morning cartoon, a spoon and a bowl of warmed chickpeas in hand, and stared. No matter how many mouthfuls of the tasteless junk he ate, his stomach wouldn’t stop howling. It gurgled through commercials and scheduled programming alike. The constant, stabbing pain of hunger was still there, even after he’d finished the can, and he knew that if he didn’t get something else in him, he’d starve.

What were the statistics again? A human could survive something like three days without water, but three weeks without food?

Like he was going to test that theory.

As the familiar cartoons turned into shows that were beyond ridiculous—kids these days were missing out on good TV from back in his day—Collin took stock of his acquired weaponry. He had the garage tools and the kitchen knives, and he wasn’t scared to use them on a freak.

Well, okay, he was fucking terrified, but he’d like to think, deep down, that when the time came, he’d stab any attacker right in the face if he needed to. And these cannibal freaks probably needed a good stabbing.

He could do this. He could break in to a few of the neighboring houses and raid their fridges. On any given normal day, Collin crept around without people noticing him—and these were normal, fully-functioning people. He was pretty sure he’d be able to get around without halfwits noticing him.

After taking a quick piss and washing his face, Collin formulated a plan. Go out into the garage, take the side door that led outside, get into the neighbor’s yard, break in, eat, move on. He’d eat half of what he found, then carry the rest back. Move silently. Don’t cough or sneeze or burp. Don’t be seen.

Piece of cake, right?

***

Wrong. Not a piece of cake. Breaking into a house with nobody in it was a piece of cake. Breaking into houses that potentially housed terrified occupants and cannibal freaks alike was not a fucking piece of cake.

The only bit of luck he had was that the house next door was empty. While the occupants of 11 Maplewood Drive left their windows unlocked like morons, the family in 13 Maplewood Drive abandoned their house entirely, presumably when the freaks hit. It was easy to push open doors, crack a window, and get in—nothing was locked. Their car was gone too, he’d noted as he scuttled across the lawn, crouched low, and slipped in the front door.

Unfortunately, navigating a new house while scared out of one’s mind wasn’t an easy task. Every creak, every whisper, every scratch sent him nerves into overdrive, and he ended up embedding his hammer in the wall when he thought he heard something behind him.

F-Fuck, he muttered, yanking at the handle to drag it out of the drywall. He had to be going crazy. There was nothing there. Nothing in the entryway except for a little table with flowers and family photos hanging on the wall. Shaking his head, he pressed further into the house, creeping along like some secret agent in a spy flick.

He found the kitchen shortly after the hammer incident, and let out a long sigh at the sight of the place. Not only had the family abandoned their home, but they’d cleared out all their food too. In retrospect, that was probably the smart thing to do. If the freaks were here, maybe they were everywhere. Maybe grocery stores were fucked too. May as well take whatever you can get.

Tapping his hammer in the palm of his hand, he did a quick sweep of all the cupboards anyway. There was a packet of Caesar salad dressing in powder form—just add water for instant flavor! Biting his cheek, he stuffed it in his backpack with a frown. At least his food might have a little taste to it, if he ever found something of substance to munch on.

13 Maplewood was a bust, and he managed to get to another house over by creeping behind the hedges. The groans of the freaks were louder once he was outside, more unnerving, and he had to hide in a hedge when one wandered by him. The freak had stopped briefly; its nostrils flared and jaw slack, before staggering off in the direction he’d come from.

15 Maplewood’s front door was locked, but he’d been able to crawl under the garage door, all the while praying for no rats. Collin navigated through the door space with his arms outstretched, taking cautious, quiet steps until he found the door into the house. Unlocked, thankfully.

Look at that—he was lucky after all.

This house was less chaotic than its neighbor; it seemed like no one was in a rush to get out of it. Car was gone too, but that could have meant the family was out for the day, or at work.

And the kitchen was fucking loaded. His mouth watered as he perused the full cupboards and picked through the stocked fridge. Fruits. Vegetables. Steaks. Bread. He could have holed up here, rather than carrying everything back to 11 Maplewood. He could fortify the house. Block some windows. Lock the doors.

Totally plausible.

He nodded, happy with his plan, and then went for the bread loaf—stopping abruptly when he heard one of those awful, gut-wrenching groans right behind him. The sound sent a chill down his spine, his skin prickling, and for a split-second, he was too scared to turn around.

But then the shuffling started—the limping of heavy feet across the tile floor.

Be a fucking man, Collin.

He drew in a slow, deep breath, then turned on the spot. It was worse than he’d expected: a face covered in bright red blood, the freak—a man in another life—gawked at him with hollow eyes. Hands groping toward him, Collin noted that it looked like someone had torn its fingernails off—or it’d done it personally, scratching at something.

He scrambled back as the freak’s outstretched fingers went for him, and that seemed to anger the thing. It—he was convinced freaks weren’t people at this point... how could they be?—lunged forward, mouth falling open even further, and red-tinted drool spilled over his lips.

Fuck off, man, Collin spat, wishing he’d sounded braver than he did. He shoved at the freak, not wanting to get too close, but it was like shoving at a sack of potatoes. The freak staggered to the side slightly, then bore down on him. The hollow look in his eye had changed to something else—something darker. Hungry.

And, without contemplating his next action, Collin swung the hammer down hard, nailing the freak right in the forehead. He almost retched when it broke skin, sticking in the freak’s head like it had the drywall in the previous house. Horrified, he let go of the handle and shoved at the body once more. This time, the freak fell, and it couldn’t get up, no matter how hard it tried. Collin left it rolling around on the kitchen floor, the tiles quickly staining with blood—the freak’s or somebody else’s, he couldn’t he sure.

He staggered out of the kitchen and into the hall, then yelped when another freak—a former woman—lunged at him from the living room. The pearls offset the bloody complexion of the freak’s skin. This one didn’t have the hollow look at all—this one was quite obviously hungry. Hungry for him. Just like the one who’d watched him sleep.

Cursing, he threw all caution to the wind, not caring about creeping around like some super secret spy in a movie anymore, and booked it for the front door. The second freak followed in its homemaker’s uniform, and as he shot a look over his shoulder, his hands frantically unlocking the various locks, he noticed the freak from the kitchen was finally up. It lumbered into the hall behind the other—maybe husband and wife—with the hammer still embedded in its forehead. A new, fresh trail of dark blood rippled down its face, blotting out its eye and staining its clothes.

With trembling hands, he managed to finally get passed the dozens of locks on the front door, then threw it open and scrambled onto the porch—right into the waiting arms of six new freaks. Bloody, smelly, and just downright disgusting, their groans grew louder at the sight of him. Collin staggered back, ducking and dodging, weaving and bobbing, to avoid all those outstretched, grabby hands.

He needed that hammer back—there was no way the screwdriver in his backpack would be as effective as the hammer, and the knives were probably limited in their effectiveness. If video games had taught him anything, it was that blunt, solid objects were the best when fighting off a horde of zombies.

Collin collapsed against the wall when the thought crossed his mind. Zombies. Was he in the midst of a fucking zombie apocalypse?! That kind of shit only happened in the movies or on TV!

No, they were freaks. Freaks with some fucked up wiring. Cannibalistic freaks at that. He ducked out of a freak’s way, then shoved at it as hard as he could. It staggered into the one behind, and the pair fell down the front steps, emitting nothing but that awful groaning on the way down. Once they hit the stone walkway, they seemed down for the count—for now.

He went for the hammer as soon as the freak stumbled out of the doorway, grasping the handle and tugging. Unfortunately, it was really stuck in there: tugging only managed to pull the freak closer to him. The freak chomped its teeth together this time, the loud clacking making his heart pound, and Collin quickly figured he could find another hammer back in 11 Maplewood’s garage. Hopefully. There was a whole set of tools in there. Maybe he could find some power tools too...

He stumbled out of the way as the freaks closed in on him, ducking low and throwing himself down the front steps through a pair of parted legs. The landing hurt, the base of his hands taking the brunt of it, and when he straightened up, he saw some skin had torn away. Nothing fatal. He could ignore the stinging—nothing worse than a skinned knee.

The whole ordeal had managed to catch the attention of the neighborhood. As he struggled to his feet, Collin found he was faced with not six or seven, but dozens of freaks. They lumbered toward him, some faster than others, with their arms outstretched. Hungry. Bloody, broken, fucked. There was no telling what the people they’d been before had gone through to end up like this, but Collin wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

He’d never been much of a runner. He was a great biker, sure, and could weave through rush hour traffic on two wheels like an absolute pro. His bike, however, was in 11 Maplewood’s backyard, and he had to rely on his legs to get him there.

The freaks weren’t the only hungry ones. Powering through the lightheadedness and the pain in his gut, he raced across manicured lawns, weaving around freaks, shoving passed those that got in his way. He went immediately for the high wooden gate to the backyard, fumbling with the lock—it must have clicked back into place when it swung shut before. Once inside, he bypassed his bike and hopped into the kitchen window he’d purposefully left unlocked. The groans echoed after him, and he heard the clamor of bodies being thrown up against the fence.

Inside at last, he slammed the window closed and locked it, then hastily covered it with the blinds. Maybe they’d get confused when they couldn’t find him. The best he could do was hope that they’d wander around the outside of the house for a bit, lose interest, then find someone else to eat.

Attack. Rip apart. Mutilate. Whatever the fuck these freaks did to get their kicks.

Panting, he crumbled to the familiar kitchen flooring as soon as he had both feet on it. In movies and TV, none of the heroes trembled. They faced their fears—sometimes unsuccessfully—and then moved on to the next task. But here he was, shaking like a leaf, unable to get up even when he tried.

He cried out when something pounded against the windows. Fists and nails collided with the sturdy panes, and he could hear them groaning around the porch.

Fortify the place. Reinforce all the doors and windows, and wait it out. Stick to the original plan. Collin ran his sweaty hands through his hair, drawing in uneven gasps. But he couldn’t just wait it out. He couldn’t sit in this house with no food. It wasn’t a fortress. There was only so much he could do to barricade himself in. He wasn’t a pro at anything besides breaking-and-entering, and at this point, he figured a lot of people were going to switch to his specialty.

No matter how well he barricaded himself inside this house, it wouldn’t matter. Collin had chosen 11 Maplewood Drive as his first job of the neighborhood because it was an easy gig: lots of windows to break. If these freaks were determined enough, and it seemed like they were, then they could probably get inside eventually. It just took one of them to pick up a rock and use that instead of a fist, and then it would all be over.

Besides, he couldn’t stay here without any food. Still shaking, he slowly pushed himself to his knees, then his feet, and did a quick scan of the kitchen. Just as empty as before. No magical food faeries stopped by while he was out to replenish the fridge. That last house would have been ideal, had those freaks not already taken up residence inside. He needed to bail. He needed to get the fuck out of suburbia once and for all. The city was probably a better option for him anyway. Sure, it was more densely populated, but he knew where to go, where to hide. He could fortify his apartment with its two windows and bash-proof door—that was where he needed to go, not two doors down the road.

But how to get away without alerting the freaks...

He stalked into the living room and pushed the curtains in front of the bay windows aside, flinching when he came face-to-face with a freak. He couldn’t tell if it was the same freak from a few nights ago, but it was gnawing on the window again. If it was, she—it—wasn’t easting: those were some gaunt cheeks.

Swallowing heavily, he searched the room, but quickly realized he had everything he needed. After a quick jaunt into the garage—wherein he heard freaks banging on the other door, groaning—he added a few more tools to his backpack. This time, he wasn’t going to sneak around—if his plan worked, he’d be able to get out of this place without attracting the attention of the whole neighborhood.

Although, in order to make the plan work, he would need to get their collective attention.

His eyes wandered to the giant flat-screen mounted on the wall, and he sprang into action. Turning it on, Collin cranked the volume, and the banging on the windows intensified. Good. They heard it.

Okay. Time to make the run to freedom.

Going against all his better judgment, Collin unlocked the front door and propped it open just enough for the freaks to find a way in. He then turned the TV’s volume up to its max capability before racing to the kitchen, almost tripping over his own feet.

The freaks in the backyard were wandering back to the gate, hopefully attracted to the sound, which allowed him to slip out the same window he initially used to break in, and with no hungry eyes on him—for now—he scaled the drainpipe on the side of the house and clambered up to the roof.

Surprise coursed through him: who would have thought a drainpipe could actually hold him? From the high vantage point, he was able to watch the freaks wander toward the house, drawn in by the noise from the TV below. They came in droves, groaning and shuffling and bumping into one another. Good. Come on, you freaks. Come be a TV zombie instead.

Taking advantage of the adrenaline rush, Collin took a running start and leapt from this roof to the neighboring one. His ankle rolled in impact, and he almost tumbled over the side of the slated rooftop.

But he didn’t. His suicidal plan, one that wasn’t even properly thought out now that he considered it, had actually worked.

He moved from roof to roof, leaving behind him the distracted freaks. A few stopped in the street every so often whenever he landed too hard, but the houses were close enough for him to hop from one to the next without making too big of a scene. Once he thought he was far enough away, he crawled down from roof to garage top, then into a backyard. From there, he hopped the fence, limping on his rolled ankle, and made his way into the grassy ravine.

See ya later, suburbia.

He raised his middle finger at the place as a parting salute before slipping into the trees, crouched low and eyes peeled for freaks. If he never saw another manicured lawn or freshly paved driveway, it would be too fucking