The Bone Harvest: Gunship, #7

By John Macallen Davis

After the infection, citizens of the Drifts are left behind to survive against the rise of zombies. This is the story of Jacento and its heroes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Macallen Davis
• Release date: Aug 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386898658

Book preview

BONE HARVEST

A GUNSHIP STORY

John Macallen Davis

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical people, events or places are used fictitiously. Any other names, places, events or characters are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 John Michael Davis

Editing by: Daniél Lecoq

All rights reserved, including the right to copy this book or portions of this book in any form. For more information, please email [e-mail].

First edition February 2017

If you are an author in search of quality professional editing, please email [e-mail] and should you encounter any errors during this reading experience, feel free to email us so that we may correct them and improve this work.

Awakening logo is a copyright of John Michael Davis, all rights reserved.

Originally published as Zombie Cowboys

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

Chapter 1

IT CAME WITH THE RAIN.

Officially, the Mortakin Virus was a weapon of war designed by the hunters and their mad scientist. It was otherwise known as the infection.

Millions of innocent people died across the Skyla System when the infection was launched. We quickly found out, as did those who created the virus, that it was uncontrollable. The hunters had hoped to contain the virus and use it when and where they deemed it was needed as their union with humanity began to crumble. They had no idea that once it was released, the virus would continue to chew its way across our star system in horrific fashion. The total count of the Skyla System's population that once stood at billions – less than 1% proved immune to the horrors of the virus.

Most of those who were infected dropped dead as a stone within a month of contracting the virus. Showing only a low-grade fever at first, their temperature quickly spiked well beyond its normal range. Their bodies became too hostile to operate under normal conditions, which led to organs shutting down.

Worse even, was the fact that a great many of the dead came back. Clinically, they passed away for a short time before coming back from the dead with a hunger something fierce. Typical zombies, I suppose. Not that there's anything typical about running folks down to gnaw on their flesh.

For whatever reason, a small percentage of the human population seemed to be immune to the Mortakin Virus. Their bodies just didn't take to it and we never quite figured out why. No fever; no possibility of being turned. It was likely a case of genetics, but with a star system full of dead scientists, no one could prove anything. In the end, the reasoning doesn't amount to a hill of beans. What matters is humanity was left with only a fraction of its population intact, forced to initiate a lottery and form an exodus fleet, but that's a story for another day.

If you think this is the typical tale of survival, think again.

The people of the drifts have had 25 years to survive and they've done a pretty good job of it, given the circumstances. The drifts weren't exactly a place of luxury to begin with – not like the central planets, with brimming skylines and overpopulated cities. This was a string of moons that preferred a simple life. Farming, sharecropping; they didn't need the spice of modern technology. It also happened to be the birthplace of the virus, so, as you might imagine, the lottery mysteriously drew no one from the drifts. The survivors here had learned to make due. They've adapted to life with the infected.

The zombies have also adapted.

Most of them are the garden variety. Lethargic, simple-minded and lead-footed. That said, most of them seem to rally themselves around an alpha of the pack. It's the alphas you've got to worry about. They're much faster and mean as hell. Tricky, too. The average zombie may be mindless, but the alphas can reason. They like to lay traps and watch their prey walk right into them, which can be a bitch at times.

As you might expect, the living are just as big of a problem. There are no real governments anymore, at least not in the drifts. Aside from the occasional crew of low-rent scrappers with a pair of testicles the side of two Glimmerian moons, the folks here have been left to it; completely cut off from the Skyla System.

Communities of survivors have formed and they all have their own rules. Just as has been the case since the dawn of mankind, you also have those who throw a middle-finger into the face of rules and go their own way. Outlaws, we like to call 'em. They'll kill a man for a pack of cigarettes from the old world, and if you happen to have anything better, things like guns, gasoline or antibiotics, they'll kill your pet dog, feed him to you and then kill you straight dead like a bottle of long gone whiskey.

As for the zombies, they keep inventing better ways to chase us and we invent quicker ways to stay a few steps ahead of them. Humanity here in the drifts has found that there is strength in numbers, which, sadly, works both ways. Find yourself swamped by a superior number of growling dead and you might as well bend over and kiss your own ass goodbye.

Most folks tend to stick to the high ground. For some, that means the towering skyscrapers of a world that once was. What small cities were in the drifts remain overrun, while the tallest buildings belong to our kind once more. They may just be mini-skyscrapers at best, but plenty of men and women have died to take 'em back and call 'em home.

For the less-fortunate, large networking caves or barges on the sea work just fine. Or, like the folks in Jacento and hundreds of locations just like it; it means a very small city built atop towers of stone. Bluntly put, we're a generation of farmers and cowboys who've survived living in ground zero of the Skyla System's worst plague ever.

Communities trade back and forth using airships, which seems only natural. Nearly everyone has the technology to use steam power, and that's pretty much all it takes for the rawest of ships. Along with a bit of fabric and some luck. If you live in  a smaller community and you have the right people behind that all-terrain vehicle or convoy of vehicles, affectionately known as a stagecoach, you can get from place to place.

If you have fish hand over fist but desired something else, you trade with folks by way of airship or stagecoach. Every location has its resources and every location has a list of needs. You find other locations to trade with and you do your best to keep surviving. There are no more nations, just small groups of people trying to survive. Communities working together, that's the new face of our planet.

Like I said before, our worlds have changed. But, as some folks eventually figure out, some things will never change. Greed, lust and deception are all part of our everyday lives. No matter what the circumstances are. Every son of a bitch with a beating heart in his chest and a desire to live has the same motto.

Know your enemy. Pack Heat. Have a plan.

IT'S HARD TO IMAGINE chaos in a world that ushers in a brand new day by way of a gorgeous sunrise.

Hughes thought long and hard about that as he continued to puff on small nub of a very tough cigar. His rough lips massaged the brittle leaf wrapping as mental gears did their work in his head.

Are you ready to head out?

No, Hughes replied, looking to his longtime friend, Eli Sykes. Hell no.

Hughes was taller than average with a plentiful build. Stocky, but not fat in the least, Hughes was a fighter. He always had been. The type of man that took no shit and was quick to give it when he needed to. A thick head of dark brown hair topped off his experienced face and wild beard of unkempt facial hairs. If our star system had never known the infection, Hughes would have likely been a construction worker. Perhaps a lumberjack. In a world filled with flesh-eating infected, though, he was a survivor.

His friend Eli Sykes was of a different sort. Average height and, at best, average build. He was clean shaven and a bit more proper. Especially when it came to his words, which matched the slickness of feathery brown hair which rested on his head in nicely-trimmed fashion. He looked like the typical boy next door.

Even so, we need to go sooner rather than later. We can't afford to be burning daylight. Eli replied.

Fuck. Hughes grumbled with aggravation as he slowly stood to his feet. Not happy about having to leave the comforts of home behind. Even if he was damn good at his job, it didn't make him enjoy it.

Glancing around, the small city of Jacento was already in full swing for the day. A hundred or more buildings, each of them varying in size, rested atop the large tower which had been constructed during the rebuilding years. Small homes and even a handful of larger, business-type dwellings, rested on top of the tower of stone. It had been a labor of both love and desperation as those around the area had plenty of rock and the equipment to shape it to their needs. The tower itself was a few stories high and finely-crafted. The structured homes were much cruder in appearance. They'd gradually been built with scrap wood and pretty much anything else that could be salvaged by the survivors.

The truth of the matter was, humanity had gotten its ass kicked following the outbreak of the Mortakin Virus. Even if our armies had the numbers, technology and certainly the arrogance to win – they didn't. We quickly found out how sheer numbers can overwhelm the might of military power as infection began to spread throughout the ranks of our warriors. At first, people didn't want to believe that the end was near. It's easy to see the news of an outbreak on the far side of the solar system and believe you're safe. They'd become accustomed to watching the war from a distance, relying on information from the front lines.

It wasn't until the Colonial Army was overrun and the standing commander fell that folks understood the war against the undead had been lost. By then, it was too late for most of them. Those who'd planned ahead and those who'd taken the reports seriously were survivors in every sense of the word. From preppers deep within underground bunkers to those who'd quickly started working on constructing stone towers – there would be a life of rebuilding once the infection ran its course.

Rather than launch a second war against the zombies that we'd most certainly lose, what remained of humanity launched a war of wits. At least for those left behind by the exodus fleet. We couldn't live with the undead and we certainly couldn't beat their overwhelming numbers, so our greatest minds began scrambling to find another way. Everything was suggested, from the drifts building their own