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

to see the first troop of zombs reach the truck’s front grill. The anger broiling in their eyes had Zac squirming in his seat. They had to get out of there, pronto. Without any prompting, the bitmap path to safety appeared in his inner vision.

“Time to go,” Zac stated with unfelt calmness. “Make a right on Bronson.” Where in hell were the Enforcers? They should have been there, saving these people.

“Hold your balls.” The truck driver stomped on the gas pedal, thudding his chest. “Danovich fastest—”

“Driver in class,” Zac cut in, resisting the impulse to laugh at the Russian’s translation. Clearly, this had rapidly escalated into a hold-your-balls situation. Unfortunately, the added cargo impeded the truck.

Zombs ran at impossible speed like that shapeshifting Terminator in Judgment Day. With flying leaps, they scaled the truck. Zac had no idea how they held on. All the while, the truck lurched from side to side. “What the hell are they doing back there?” Zac shouted with the gut-wrenching realization the people in the back had their own battle to deal with. A zomb must have made it inside. They were turning . . .

A balled fist busted through Danovich’s window. A zomb grabbed him by the throat.

“The hell!” Zac double-tapped the SOB in the forehead, two seconds too late. The zomb let go.

The jarring of tires grappling over the curb was as petrifying as the pain in Danovich’s eyes when he patted his neck. He stared at his bloodied fingers. The brief flicker of “Aw shit, I just got bit” transformed into that vacant zomb-eyed lust of eternal hunger. Danovich turned in seconds. And Zac sat right next to—it.

Seconds to decide—jump out the truck or fight off the zombs? The trigger reacted first. It took three rounds to persuade Danovich’s undead body not to shred him to pieces. Zac reached over, opened the driver’s door, and shoved the Russian out.

The freeway entrance was around the corner. Two more zombs bobbled outside the driver’s side window. A quick double-slam of the door took care of them. A thud on the cab’s roof prepared him for the next threat. The zomb leaned over the edge of the cab’s roof and punched at the passenger’s window. Zac fired several rounds. But the SOB had seen it coming. It ducked.

The freeway on-ramp came into view. Two Humvees and four Enforcers raised their weapons at the sight of the zomb-covered truck. Well, Zac wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t. He squeezed the truck between the Humvees with gunfire peppering the truck. He ducked, praying damn hard the engine block protected him. And he busted through.

No signs of the motley crew of hitchhiking zombs per a quick recon of the mirrors. The automatic gunfire must have knocked them off. Oddly enough, the Enforcers hadn’t followed. They were probably more concerned with keeping intruders out of the ABC Zones. Or they were calling in the coordinates now. He tromped the accelerator, expecting a fleet of Special Ops to appear in the rearview.

The floppity-flop-flop reverberating from outside indicated he had lost a tire in the shootout. “Can’t I catch a break?” He would just grind the rim until he found another vehicle. Of course, there was a hitch to his plan. There weren’t many vehicles in the Zones. Citizens relied on the trams or car rentals when they could afford the splurge.

“Damn! Another tire?” Caught in the No Zone with a bootleg CitChip during a RedDead Alert, driving on not one—but two flat tires. With a payload of vile zombs. What more could go wrong?

The engine seized. “Aw, shit!” It must have taken a hit. Zac coasted to the shoulder more determined than ever.

Time to walk it. He grabbed the electrician’s bag before stepping onto the empty freeway. The truck’s metal siding bulged where the zombs had apparently attempted to body-slam their way out. When he shut the door, their groans took over. The truck bounced and rocked. All it had taken was one zomb. Danovich wouldn’t have turned if he hadn’t tried to save so many people. That’s the shits when common decency ended up being a fatal flaw.

He grabbed the black marker from his bag. On the side of the truck, he wrote: WARNING! X-STRAINS INSIDE in huge block letters. Without looking back, he hiked northbound, hoping it took a while for the horde to bust out.

It was going to be a hell of a long walk to the Forbidden Zone. Step after step, another fear needled him, one he had chosen to ignore during his trial. What if Scarlett and her friends left without him . . .

Chapter 20

Dean Wormer sat behind the skoolie’s wheel, fretting like the Partridge family’s manager late to their first gig. After wasting several hours and precious petrol attempting to gain access to the numerous highways, they had finally concluded all highway access had been intentionally sealed-off from within the Forbidden Zone. Most likely to deter smuggler activity, he presumed.

Driving the bus was pretty cut and dried, although the elaborate panel of switches to his left intimidated him. Familiar with Frank’s skoolie, he knew to let the engine idle until the Wait to Start light lit and to let the pressure build up for the air brakes. Of course, he was bound to burn out one thing or another without the proper training. As long as the ole bus didn’t conk out on them.

With Scarlett and Justin co-piloting from the bench seat behind him, they stuck to the byroads, skirting the towns when possible. Thing was, getting from point A to point B was a tricky process. They weren’t putting as many miles behind them as he had projected. By midnight, they had accepted the fact they weren’t getting to Tent City until tomorrow.

“We’re coming up to a town,” Scarlett said, reading the map by flashlight. “We’ll have to drive through it. This