Zombie Attack! (Book 4): Master of the Dead Read online

  Zombie Attack! Master of the Dead

  by

  Devan Sagliani

  Kindle Edition

  Laughing Crow Media copyright © 2017

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Laughing Crow Media

  Copyright & License Notes

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious and any similarity to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This ebook is licensed for personal usage only and me not be given away or shared with anyone else. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase a copy for each individual you are sharing with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for you, you should return to Amazon.com and buy your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the rights of the authors!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Excerpt from Zombie Attack! Rise of the Horde

  About the Author

  Other Available Titles

  Chapter One

  Zane did his best to blend in with the crowd at the Arena, one of the main zombie fighting pits in the unincorporated fringe lands still technically called California City. It was where townsfolk and bored militia fighters came to gamble or get wasted, along with the fancy Citizens from nearby Freedom zones.

  Citizens generally stuck out like a sore thumb with their fresh, new clothes, polished manners, and – above all else – their washed and styled hair. There weren’t many of them during daylight hours, but at night you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one.

  Only the addicts come out in the sunlight, Zane thought. The rest of them prefer to creep among us unseen in the shadows, just like I’m doing now. Only if I get caught I’ll be killed and my body will be turned over for the bounty on my head. A Citizen could kill six of us and get nothing more than a slap on the wrist. That’s why you never trust one, no matter what they tell you.

  Zane pulled his hood lower as he moved deeper in toward the center of the Arena. The building itself had once been an ice skating rink but now cages filled the center of the dirt pit. The walls, still boasting about ‘Teen Skate Tuesday’ were splattered with dried blood and other repugnant bodily fluids.

  The few lights that hadn’t been smashed out flickered over head as crowds of shouting gamblers gathered together in the din, waving dirty money clenched in tight fists as they placed their bets. From a glance the bills looked mostly American, with some pesos thrown in as well judging from the bright colored paper.

  There were telephone poles on either end of the dirt rink, each with a thrashing man chained to them. A crudely made wooden sign was tacked over the head of the man to the right side with the word GREED smeared in blood on it.

  He was nothing short of a monster in appearance alone, standing over six feet tall and rippling with muscle from head to toe, but that wasn’t what Zane found terrifying about him. He had a shaggy mane of oily black hair that fell in jagged curls onto his bulging shoulder muscles, a scruffy beard with patches of grey, and a wild look in his eyes that Zane knew only too well from his time in the Fringe lands. His shirt had been ripped down the front to reveal a torso crisscrossed with gang tattoos and scars.

  He’s killed more than just zombies before, Zane thought. And he’ll kill again if he gets a chance.

  He checked the exits, making an escape plan in the off chance that the hulking madman in the pit went rogue. He’d learned long ago that the best way to stay alive was to keep your eyes open and plan ahead.

  Stay scared, Zane thought. It had become his personal motto. The moment you relax and let your guard down, you’re a goner.

  The fellow chained across from the tall psycho was just about the exact opposite of him in nearly every conceivable way. He was a short, balding, pudgy, and wore thick glasses that were taped back together after being broken who knows how many times.

  Something about him reminded Zane of a newborn maggot. His milky white skin seemed to glow, the dewy thin sheen of panic sweat glistening as he shivered in utter, hopeless fear. Zane didn’t need to read the charge smeared in blood over this man’s head on a wooden plank – GLUTTONY – to know why the sniveling bookworm was now squirming on the hook, so to speak.

  The shiny bruise on his right cheek said it all. He’d gone too far one too many times, most likely borrowing bigger and bigger sums before squandering them on fool’s bets, and now he was paying the price for it by becoming a permanent part of the entertainment.

  It had become a common theme with Lord Mayhem since he took over zom fighting in town, allowing weak and addicted losers to charge up a fat tab then collecting on the debt when he was low on fresh victims for his show.

  This sad loser looks like he should be in an office typing away on computer code and bitching about fantasy football, Zane thought, instead of the afternoon attraction at the zombie fighting pits. He’s probably wondering right now where did it all go wrong.

  Both men had iron collars clamped around their necks and locked, allowing them to roam a short distance once their arms were released. This would ensure they’d have a sporting chance to fight off the zoms when the time came, without letting them ever leaving the pit.

  Zane was watching the big guy try to pry his off with his fingers when he caught sight of a tall man in the crowd across the pits, dressed in a midnight black suit that was impossible clean. The dark-haired stranger wore black gloves as well, and a matching raven colored hat to complete his improbable outfit. Zane noticed not a hair was out of place on the guy. He looked like he’d stepped out of an ad for high-end villain costumes from a Halloween store.

  No one from the Fringes could keep their clothing in such immaculate condition, Zane thought, a shiver running up his spine. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone that clean since before Z Day, not even Citizens.

  The cold truth that there was a better than average chance the mysteriously dust free stranger was in fact a bounty hunter hit Zane like a hard, unexpected punch to the guts. Even if he wasn’t hunting him specifically, if he had his eyes on another runner, there was still a chance he might come to find out about Zane’s fugitive status and attempt to collect the reward.

  “Dead or alive,” Zane gulped, fidgeting nervously as he recalled the posters he’d been forced to post while chained to a work crew.

  For the first time, he considered that there were people out there now, maybe even guys from his old work crew, putting up posters with his face on it now. Sooner or later someone was try going to come and collect.

  Let ‘em try, Zane thought defiantly. I’d rather die than go back anyway.

  Zane began to obsessively study the man who might one day try to capture or kill him. He was tall and wiry, also older, in his mid-to-late 40’s. Underneath the fine clothing he wore Zane sensed a rail thin, muscular frame, like a tiger ready to spring into action on a moment’s notice.

  It was in the way he moved, each motion graceful and controlled. He held a gentleman’s cane with a gleaming silver skull with ruby eyes for a handle in his right hand, but there was no mistaking it was merely for show.

  He gestured confidently with it towards the men in the Arena as he spoke to the man next to him, a tattoo-sleeved biker with Alpha patches on his leather vest who kept nodding his head in approval as if he didn’t want to upset the tall stranger.

  He looks out of place here, Zane thought, pulling back a little into the crowd as he memorized every detail of the new arrival. Like he’s not at the Arena to watch the shows but for some other purpose. Maybe he’s the one who brought back the psycho in the rink.

  Since he’d fled Barstow he’d managed to duck his fair share of bounty hunters. It was a long way to California City and unless you wanted to have your head served up on a platter you avoided the badlands and stuck to the Fringes. That meant bumping into a fair amount of killers for hire and head collectors along the way, but Zane had always managed to stay one step ahead of them.

  By doing my best to blend in and not stand out, he thought. Calling attention to yourself out here is like asking for a death sentence.

  Suddenly the older gentleman turned and fixed a cold smile on Zane, who felt his breath catch in his throat. A jagged scar ran across the right side of his long face, starting at the middle of his forehead and slashing over his right eye which had turned a milky shade of white in shocking contrast to the pitch-black hue of his undamaged orb.

  It’s like his right eye is haunted, thought Zane as a dark wave of fear churned up from the base of his spine making the hair on his arms tingle. He drew back instinctively, nearly tripping over the guy behind him in the process as he slid out of sight in the crush of bodies.

  Peaking between two burly gamblers who’d poured into the vacancy he’d left near the front of the plexiglass he thought he saw the stranger wink at him just as the house lights went off and the center spotlight
came on.

  For an instant, he allowed the fear to rise in him like a cold fog, flooding his imagination with dark possibilities; the eye with its evil powers cleaved through his mind, laying open his thoughts and intentions, unwillingly exposing him to the dangerous stranger. A shiver ran through him at the thought and he did his best to shake it off.

  Zane hunched over and scurried to a new vantage point further down the rink. Just in case, he thought, trying his best to calm the jumble of knots twisting in his guts like snakes fighting in pool of acid.

  He looked back behind him and saw one of the primary exits that lead out to the main road. If trouble came he could easily bolt for the door and be halfway through the maze of booths in the market across the street before anyone even knew he’d left.

  You should go, he thought as he eyed the door. Don’t take any chances. Just run back to Hellfire’s Ashes and tell her there’s a new tracker in town.

  But a nagging curiosity, along with his memories of his mistress’s temper, made him turn back to watch the show. He had bad news to give her, and she wasn’t the kind that took bad news well.

  Anything out of the ordinary seemed to send her into a hissy fit these days and Zane had a strong feeling this would be no exception.

  Since I’m going to get chewed out over nothing anyway, he decided, I might as well stay and see what all the fuss is about.

  In the middle of the puddle of light emerged a brightly costumed clown with a painted skull face and comical tufts of red hair. In his right hand, he held a megaphone. With his left hand, he honked a pink horn tied to his waist over and over, sending the crowd into a hushed silence.

  Behind him several Alphas wrangled seven snarling zombies with blood soaked metallic mesh hoods fastened over their heads out of their cages and into position, yanking them forward into the center of the rink with ropes tied to their arms and legs.

  The ropes were then attached to a big metal ring that held the monsters in place. The Alphas, who’d been taking zombies as pets and fighting them since the start of the zombie apocalypse, were experts in handling them.

  Like those guys who wrestle bears for money, Zane thought, or put their heads into the mouth of the crocodile down in the swamps for chump change from bored tourists.

  The zom handlers carefully removed the bite-proof spit bags from the heads of the infected and backed away, leaving the unfortunate former humans thrashing in agony and sniffing the air. One let out a deep moan of hunger like a desperate predator causing the skin on Zane’s arms to goose pimple.

  Zane made sure that he got a good look at the turned, scanning their faces for any signs of familiarity. They didn’t look like folks he knew from town, but you could never be too sure. One false step was all it took to be added to the numbers of the undead and enlisted in the games against your will.

  As interest in zombie fighting had grown it quickly became town policy to hand over criminals and unwanted types to Lord Mayhem, no questions asked. It wasn’t legal, but then again neither was zombie fighting.

  The military knew about the pits and the gambling and the vice, but so long as it stayed in the Fringes and no Citizens got hurt, they turned a blind eye – most of the time. At first a sentence in the pits was reserved only for the most extreme cases, usually involving serious infractions, like murder and rape.

  But more and more often minor infractions and petty disputes, along with delinquent gamblers, were being sent to the Arena as well. Trouble was, those who made it out and were actually forgiven were few and far between.

  Not a lot of second chances for redemption out here, Zane thought grimly. If you get turned you are burned, as the saying goes. No magic juice to unzombify you like those Xanadu freaks brought to Hueneme. No siree, Bob. Come back shots are reserved for the rich, the well-connected, and soldiers only, not Fringers, freaks, and outlaw scum.

  Loud screams rang out from the Arena, bringing Zane out of his brooding, as a scabby looking teenager in a black Metallica shirt and ripped jeans was dragged into the rink by his bound hands. The evil, skull-faced clown took the end of the rope from the Alpha pulling the desperate teen and held him in place with ease.

  “Welcome to the Arena of Justice,” the clown bellowed. “As you fleas and germs all know, they call me Bozo the Psycho! At your service.”

  A roar went up from the crowd as the ghoulish looking clown bowed in a show of false humility. He doubled over just as quickly as he’d bent, straightening up and basking in the glow of the crowd with a sickening lunatic’s grin plastered across his gruesome skull face.

  “As most of you know we begin our celebration of the games with a blood sacrifice. Gets the crowd going as much as the biters, am I right?!”

  More mindless cheers erupted around Zane as blood thirsty gamblers eagerly awaited the young man’s gruesome demise. Bozo gleefully honked his horn. The sound made Zane’s stomach churn.

  “Today’s offering is a nameless thief, who thought that because of his age he would be spared the full weight of justice at the hands of the benevolent Lord Mayhem.” The clown turned in circles as he cackled like a sick crow. “He thought wrrooooong!”

  Once more the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter. A man to the right of Zane hollered out “cut him up and feed him to the Z’s” while another one on his left side shouted, “what are you waiting for, Bozo?” More laughter rippled through the mob as they grew restless. Just then an Alpha walked out with a blood-stained chainsaw and set it at the clown’s feet before quickly backing away.

  “Who am I to deny my fans,” the clown crooned in a sickly-sweet voice as he set one oversized, blood splattered shoe on the chainsaw. He leaned over and jerked the gas-powered machine to life, sending the teeth of the saw whirring in a loud roar that made Zane’s stomach churn.

  “Pleeeeeeease,” the nameless thief begged. “Have muh-muh-muh-muh-mercy on me. I’m begging you!”

  “Muh-muh-muh-mercy? Muh-muh-mercy he says? Can you believe it?” The clown danced around waving the chainsaw in sickening loops ever closer to the terrified teen and cackling like a crow, his dark laughter emerging between roaring throttle bursts. “Puh-puh-pah-pretty puh-lease? Uh, do we show mercy here at the Arena of Justice?”

  “NO,” the crowd angrily wailed in unison.

  “Suh-suh-sorry kiddo,” the clown chuckled before revving the blades again. “But it’s time to start the show! Now, I’m not going to lie. This is going to sting just a little bit.”

  With one unflinching movement, the jeering clown brought the whirring blades down. A shrill scream rang out for a few seconds and then it was all over. The poor kid’s hands crashed to the dirt floor still bound and twitching.

  His jaw dropped open and his eyes went wide as he stared at the stumps in horror, his face gone white with shock. Spurts of bright red blood sprayed out of the end of both of his arms, covering the dirt floor in dark pools, while rivulets ran down his arms and coated the front of his jeans and sneakers.

  Dazed and wounded, the poor young man brought the stumps up to his face for a better look. Screams tore out of him like a deep hacking cough as he stumbled backwards into range of two eager zombies, an older black man in a scum-mottled Christmas sweater and a one-armed Asian waitress in a pink work dress with half her neck chewed open.

  “Let’s meet our contestants for this afternoon,” the clown bellowed through his bullhorn over the shrinking screams of the teen thief, who fell over and began twitching as all seven zombies descended on him like a ravenous pack of wolves.

  Flecks of blood dribbled from Bozo’s gleaming skull face as the jester skipped comically over to where the psycho biker, Mister Greed, was tied up and thrashing. Zane’s eyes kept flashing between them and the fallen teen.

  It’s like they’re totally oblivious to the kid, Zane thought. They act like the real-life horror show literally going on behind them at this very moment isn’t even happening at all, like it’s an attraction at an amusement park on Halloween.

  “Bachelor number one is a real lady killer,” the clown said to jeers from the crowd. “His hobbies include rape, torture, and good old fashioned murder for sport. My kind of outlaw to be honest. Am I right?”