Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home Popovich, A.D. (any book recommendations txt) 📖

Zac stood outside on the loading dock ramp, casing the lot. He took in a deep breath and nearly gagged. The air reeked with decay. Zombs were close if he could smell them. He selected the largest wrench along with the 9mm from the electrician bag, complete with silencer, courtesy of the ill-fated hitman. That’s when he spotted the delivery truck with the Lone Star Bread Company logo painted on the side, the same truck he had seen with his soft-focus vision.

For some reason, a man sat in the driver’s seat. He must have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time: The No Zone. That’s what they called it when one didn’t make it to safety within minutes of a RedDead Alert. Idiocracy at its best. What could one expect from a country run by the rich and powerful as opposed to brains?

I might as well help the truck driver get to safety, he thought as he sprinted to the driver’s side of the mid-size delivery truck. “Excuse me, can I get a lift?”

“Lockdown. Roads closed,” the man said with a thick Slavic accent. He opened the passenger door for Zac. “Okay to wait inside truck.” He motioned.

Zac gladly climbed into the GMC’s cab.

“Danovich. Please to meet.” The man held out a buffed arm for a shake.

“Reynolds,” Zac quickly introduced, according to his latest counterfeit CitChip.

“Is safe?” Danovich’s huge bushy eyebrows arched into Vs. “My mudak boss only pay after route finished.”

Zac didn’t need to answer that one when the tornado sirens went off, for it was a clear sunny morning.

“Zhizn’ ebet meya!” Danovich’s eyes widened, rivaling bottle caps. “Truck, not good place,” he muttered on.

“You’re absolutely right. Look, I can get us out of here.” Zac knew his way around the ABC Zones. He could always count on his pixilated soft-focus vision to get him to safety. He certainly didn’t want to be there when the zombs came marching in.

The delivery man didn’t need any prodding. He started the truck. “No worries, Danovich, best driver in class.”

Zac looked from side to side for the exit. This area was a maze of alleys and service roads used for deliveries. When they finally made it out of the maze, the sirens stopped. “Right, on Main Street.” Zac pointed.

The truck turned the corner so fast he thought it might roll over. “Yee-ha!” the truck driver whooped. “Danovich, fastest driver in class!”

All four wheels finally caught pavement. “Great,” Zac acknowledged with a friendly smile. The man drives like a lunatic.

When the screaming started, he and Danovich shared pensive eye contact. Up ahead, a crowd of frantic citizens stuck in the No Zone rushed the truck. But it was what they ran from that sent the hackles on the back of his neck quivering. From his front-row seat, he watched the X-strains gain on the unfortunate citizens.

“They don’t have a chance,” Zac uttered. The massive crowd rioted toward the truck like Tiananmen Square protesters running from the slaughter. But instead of parting out of the truck’s path, they ran dead-straight for the truck. They’d run down dozens . . .

“Nyet!” Danovich shouted. “Just like Russia. Life is fuck-ing me!”

There was no time to turn the truck around. “Back the hell up, man!” Zac shouted.

The truck squealed to a stop. The delivery guy shifted into reverse as the first wave of citizens reached the cab. “No worries. Danovich, best backer-upper in class!”

“Great,” Zac said blandly. The truck gained speed, losing the mob. He couldn’t stop the barrage of guilty thoughts tormenting him. He should help those people. But what could he do? He couldn’t save everyone without risking his own humanity.

Guilt-shamed, Zac focused on his side mirror and watched for a turnout area. The truck rear-ended something on Danovich’s side. The engine stalled. The mob’s yells of elation grew louder. But the crowd had thinned out. Replaced by the multiplying zombs.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Zac badgered when the engine hesitated. More than anything, he hated not being in control. “Floor it!”

The desperate citizens pounded the side of the truck, pleading for help. Several thought to step onto the truck’s running boards, hanging on. Danovich activated the door’s auto-lock. A temporary relief.

The engine faltered when more people slammed into the truck. “Get us out of here!” Zac shouted. He couldn’t take much more of their terror-filled screams. Based on Danovich’s sudden silence and gaping mouth, neither could he.

“What to do?” Danovich whispered. “Nyet! These people. Those monsters!” He brandished his huge hairy fists in the air. They should be registered as lethal weapons.

Zac reined in his logical mind. “Keep it in reverse ’til you hit Bronson Street.” He was surprised the truck driver wanted to help. Most people only worried about their own ass. “Can you unlock the back of the truck from here?”

A surly grin overtook Danovich’s face. “Da!” He activated a button on his door panel before cracking open the window. “Go—back of truck!” He gestured wildly to the back.

Zac watched the scene unfold through the side mirror. How many could cram inside? The X-strains at the rear of the crowd seemed to catch on to the impromptu rescue. They shoved through the screaming crowd, not attacking, not eating—running straight for the truck.

The truck lurched as people clambered inside. “Time to leave,” Zac urged as calmly as he could.

Danovich patted the steering wheel and revved the engine. “We wait”—he held up all ten fingers—“ten seconds more. Best of lucks to them . . .”

The Russian had a set of cojones on him. No doubt big, white, and hairy, just like the rest of him. “These people are lucky you’re a decent person,” Zac remarked.

Danovich beamed. “Best decent person in class.”

Zac watched from the side mirror. Danovich had saved twenty, thirty. Fifty? He turned around