Excerpt from a zombie-work-in-progress

I know I should be promoting the hell out of the “Danger Boy” eBooks — the downloads need to perk up, and have I mentioned we’re always looking for new/fresh user reviews?

😉

But you know, as The Shaggs once sang, “It’s Halloween.”

So on that note, here’s an excerpt from a zombie-work-in-progress I’ve been revising (when not proofing eBooks), and generally taking far too long on, finish-wise. The set up? Our young heroes, Max and Aurora, have spent the night in a house, barricaded in a room (somewhere in the Burbank/Glendale area) and now get ready to leave L.A. for good, in Max’s go-kart:

We had to go to back through the kitchen to get out the door, where we’d left the kart parked by the porch.

Somebody had already gotten into the house, though, and was waiting for breakfast, too.

It was the boy, with the missing eye. “Little John,” Max whispered to me.

What?,” I hissed back.

“Looks like him. A little.” I hoped the real Little John had had both his eyes. With the one the zombie had left, he blinked at us.

“Yrrrg?” he asked. Or gurgled, in a way that made it seem like a question.

“Do you think,” I whispered to Max, “that this was his house?”

“What do you mean?”

I think it was pretty obvious what I meant, but I didn’t get to say any of that. Max looked around and grabbed a stool that had been thrown on top of the stove and partially burned. In one motion, he swing it and knocked the zombie kid on the side of the head, sending him skidding across the room.

Max got out one of his sharpened knives. “I wish I had more arrows,” he said. The zombie boy was writhing around, trying to get to his feet.

“No,” I said to Max.

“What!?” He almost sounded angry with me. But I didn’t want him getting that close to something that could bite him. And there was something else.

“Let him come home, Max.”

“But–”

“Let’s go.”

The zombie kid hissed at us, as we ran out the back door. And by “ran,” I mean the kind of really fast limp I’d become good at in the last couple of days, with my sore ribs, and all my cuts and scratches.

We got outside to where the kart was. “Maybe we should have found a garage,” I said.

There were a couple of Z’s standing outside – an older man and woman. They were moving slowly, but I don’t know if that’s because they were old, or because the Z’s still moved more slowly in daylight.

Do Z’s get old?  I mean, do they age? Or keep going? Or just kind of rot?

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About marklondonwilliams

I'm an author, journalist, dad, and occasionally edgy citizen of the Pacific Edge, sharing the same uncertain times with you. Here's a place for out-loud musing on all that. Feel free to muse back!
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