The Walker Chronicles: Tales from The Dying of the Light: The Dying of the Light, #4

By Jason Kristopher

Get all of The Walker Chronicles in one ebook with this collection!

In the best-selling zombie series The Dying of the Light, author Jason Kristopher showed us that the zombie apocalypse isn't coming — it's already here, and we're losing… and have been for more than 140 years.

In this collection of supplemental short stories, Kristopher takes the reader on a behind-the-scenes journey into the rest of the world he's created in the main series. From the first known zombie incursion (Outbreak One: Washington Territory), to Nazi-created monstrosities (The Coldest Winter), through the 1981 Libyan Crisis (Blood and Sand) and the story of what befell one of our favorite characters (Whatever Happened to Thomas J. Reynolds?).

Get your fill of the AEGIS backstory with this great collection of short stories by the bestselling author of The Dying of the Light: End, called 'the best zombie book since World War Z!'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grey Gecko Press
• Release date: May 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781938821509

Book preview

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Text ©2024 Jason Kristopher

Illustrations & design ©2024 by Grey Gecko Press.

Illustrations by Dennis Fanning of Fanning Creative

All rights reserved. Other than for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction; any resemblance to real persons (living or dead), events, or entities is purely coincidental.

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Published by Grey Gecko Press

http://www.greygeckopress.com

Produced in the United States of America.

Contents

Outbreak One: Washington Territory

The Coldest Winter

Blood & Sand

Whatever Happened to Thomas J. Reynolds?

About the Author

More from Jason Kristopher

Support Indie Authors & Small Press

Grey Gecko Press

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Winter, 1872

Steady on, sergeant.

The man coughed up the last of the contents of his stomach in a steaming stream onto the cold, frozen ground, then took a deep breath and wiped his mouth. Yes, sir, captain.

Captain William Trace could hardly blame the sergeant. He, too, was nearly overcome by the destruction of these camps, and this third location was no better than the first. If anything, the carnage here was worse.

Those bodies had at least been somewhat dried out; you knew that whatever had befallen those poor souls had happened some time ago. The ones at this camp were a different story. These bodies were . . . fresh, if that word could be applied to such horrors. Teeth marks—human teeth marks—covered the bones and flesh. All too reminiscent of the tragic fate of the Donner Party, he thought. What manner of man or savage could do this? Surely even the redskin couldn’t be this depraved . . .

A shout rang out from the other side of the camp, and the captain and sergeant were moving even before they realized it. As they rounded the corner of yet another burned-out shell of a cabin, Trace saw his men firing their Springfield rifles into the darkness of a semi-collapsed building. Screams issued from inside, and the smoke from the rifles was thick. A young private stumbled out of the doorway, covered in blood from a ragged and torn wound on his arm. He held his arm close to his chest and screamed again and again.

Cease fire! yelled Trace as he ran up, his sidearm drawn and pointing toward the door. Another man helped the wounded soldier away from the ruin, trying to quiet him. Trace put a hand on the shoulder of the man standing next to him, a private named O’Malley. Fetch the surgeon! The man took off at a full sprint for the supply wagon, and the captain’s attention was diverted back to the collapsed structure as a long, low moan issued from within, at which the wounded private began screaming again and took off running.

Go get him! Trace yelled, pointing at the two nearest men. The rest of you, stand ready, but do not fire. They leveled their rifles at the doorway, prepared as only frightened men could be for whatever wailed its way toward them. A shambling figure appeared at the door of the building, and Trace’s mind rejected the existence, the very idea of what he saw as it moved into the light of day.

That’s impossible, he thought. Dead men don’t walk. They don’t move. He was stunned into immobility.

The creature was human - or had been at one point. It shambled forward toward the men, the muscles of its legs showing through horrendous tears in the flesh. Half of its face was missing, the skin torn away as if by some animal. Blood flowed in thick, sticky clumps from the end of its forearm, which was missing the hand that had once been attached. It reached for the soldiers and moaned, the mouth opening as wide as the pits of Hell itself, and it began to lunge forward.

Fortunately, the sergeant—now recovered from his earlier weakness—was not immobile and began firing his sidearm at the creature. This noise and smoke caused a chain reaction in the remainder of the men standing there, and the monster went down beneath a hail of bullets. It lay there, not even so much as twitching, as Trace ordered another cease fire. The smoke cleared somewhat.

He put a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. Thank you, Mr. Walker.

All part of the job, .

Set up a perimeter and secure this site. Any more of those . . . things you find, you shoot on sight until they stop twitching.

Yes, sir. Hotchkins, Stevens! Front and center! Sergeant Walker began issuing orders to the men, and Trace knelt next to the dead man who’d caused so much trouble, careful to stay out of the spreading pool of blood.

It was horrible to look at, but what hadn’t been destroyed by the bullets was still somewhat recognizable as human. Shriveled skin and muscle, torn in places until he could see the bone . . . not a pleasant sight.

The detachment’s surgeon ran up, O’Malley only a step behind, his bag clanging against his hip and, fortunately, distracting Trace long enough to allow him to get a grip on his sanity once more. He stood, putting his back to the corpse and looking at the doctor, who was peering around the captain.

Cap’n, I don’t think there’s much I can do for this one, he said, and Trace felt a little green as he smelled the noxious mix of sour booze on the man’s breath. He choked back his gag reflex.

No, Mr. Greenleaf, there isn’t. This one is as dead as dead can be. Trace led them both away from the body. That body there is not why I called for you.

Sounds from the forest caught his attention, and he looked up as the two men he had sent after the wounded soldier returned, bearing him between them, whimpering, his arms over their shoulders.

I think he’s done screaming, sir. Yelled hisself hoarse, I believe, said one of the soldiers.

Very well, Mr. Hotchkins. Doc, see what you can do to patch this man up. I have a feeling we’re going to need everyone we can get.

Trace spent a few minutes touring the rest of the village and thinking before he summoned Sergeant Walker to his side.

Burn it all to the ground, Walker, he said.

Burn it down, sir? the sergeant asked.

I don’t see any other solution. Do you? Trace replied.

No, sir. We can’t leave it like this, and we best be moving on.

Very well, see to it, then, while I determine our next stop.

Yes, sir. The sergeant moved away from the wagon, yelling for more men. Several ran in from where they were tending the wounded or policing the camp, and Trace turned back to the map he had spread out on