Zombie Road: The Second Omnibus | Books 4-6 | Jessie+Scarlet Simpson, A. (pride and prejudice read txt) 📖

cold with the spring melts. Once the kid came back through, the zombies should bunch up in the bottleneck on the bridge and be easy pickings. No chance of them getting too spread out. That was the plan, anyway.

His taillights disappeared around the bend in the road and they waited until the rumble of his engine faded. They could still barely hear him over the splashing of the rushing water, when he would shift gears and it sounded like he was making a zig-zag pattern through the town. Like he was just cruising around. All of them had their heads cocked, trying to hear better, when they heard AC/DC come blaring to life over the loudspeakers in his car. They occasionally heard the squalling of tires and screams of the dried out undead over the music. They followed the sound as it wound up and down the roads, then they all got ready when they heard it coming right for them. The kid grabbed another gear as he drifted around the last curve, and they could see a horde of hundreds right behind him. Some were running, most just stumbling along as fast as they could. Falling, being trampled, and getting back up a little more broken than they had been. They watched a little in awe at what he had done, gathering them all up, pied piper style. He was racing right toward them and at the last second, pulled the handbrake and went into a slide, winding up coming to a screeching halt as he gently bumped into the trucks.

“Let ‘er rip, boys!” he yelled, then put on a set of shooter’s muffs, released the pins from his M-60, and pulled it around in front of his side window. It hung suspended from the roll cage on a swivel mount, right at eye level out of his driver's window. He charged the handle and started lighting them up, joining the hunters and militiamen already aiming and firing as fast as they could. Highway to Hell was still cranked at full volume, the thundering of the guns unable to drown it out. It drew the undead forward, their husky keens and dried out screams for blood coming closer and closer. The sixty chewed them up and Jessie kept the tracers right at head level, blowing brains and brackish blood all over the pavement. They fell in droves and the chattering of the machine gun kept up until the barrel started turning red. A hundred had dropped, but they were still coming, climbing over the fallen and stumbling ever onward.

They were halfway across, too many to eliminate before they swarmed them. Jessie cut the music.

“Fallback to the other bridge!” he yelled and linked up another belt of ammo as they dove for their vehicles.

The six men and women rushed for the relative safety of their trucks, and took off down the dirt access road that disappeared into the wood line. Jessie cranked the music back up. Next on his Follow the Leader playlist was Black Sabbath, and Ozzy started telling the undead that fairies wore boots. He dropped it in gear and nailed the gas, the tires smoking and throwing the back of the car around so he was aiming straight for the oncoming horde. He had to admit, the old timers had some pretty banging music back in the day. It really set the mood. He plowed into the fastest of the runners, sending them flying in broken heaps over the railing and into the rushing water. The car bounced over the splattered corpses and the big tires churned through rotting flesh, spinning trails of blood and skin and hair along the sides of his Mercury. The Cobra Jet roared louder than the zombies, and almost as loud as Ozzy, when he slammed into the piles of flesh he’d cut down with the sixty. The car launched into the air and landed softly on a carpet of dead, snapping bones and splashing blood for yards. Bob bounced around and slid onto the floorboard, but was back in his seat, barking his head off, adding his voice to the riot of screams and roars of engines and guitars. Jessie jagged the wheel and sideswiped a line of undead with the sharpened mower teeth attached to the cage. Reaching arms flew free and bellies were ripped open. Faces were annihilated and more blood and brains painted the sides of his car. He plowed a path through the middle of the shamblers, butchering and smashing. Cutting and slaying, leaving mangled, broken heaps in his wake. Any of them that still could, turned to follow the music.

Jessie took a spin around, picking up a few more followers and giving the survivalists enough time to get situated on the bridge at the other end of town. On the second pass of the school, he saw the doors spring open and a swarm of kid-sized undead come boiling out.

Crap, he thought, as they swarmed toward him, those little boogers are quick.

They came into the road like fast-moving water, their preteen clothes still colorful and bright. This might get dicey, he thought. He wasn’t too concerned about himself, he would be safe inside the car and he had enough ammo to pick each one off individually if he got stuck. He was worried about the survivalists. This horde would swarm over them, smash right through their windows if they didn’t get away fast enough. You couldn’t fight this many first day zombies with rifles. You’d be overwhelmed.

Jessie grabbed the emergency brake and slid the back end of his car around in a rubber-screeching power slide. He threw it in first and feathered the gas, not trying to burn rubber, but grab traction and get away. The crowd that had been behind him cut down a cross street following the noise and caught up, reaching out in their slow, stumbling way. Jessie ran them down, amputated limbs, and ripped open bodies with the blades. He cut the