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

Dean adjusted the pickup’s seat. “Well, Zoat’s practically in the Stanwyck’s backyard.” Why they chose to live so close to the dead-head-filled moat was beyond him. He turned the key, thankful it coughed to a start on the third try, though the fuel tank was none too happy when he revved the engine.

“Just so you know, if you aren’t back in an hour,” Luther shouted after him, “I’m coming for you.”

Comforting to know someone’s watching my back. Dean acknowledged with a wave out the window as he drove toward the Stanwyck’s house, which stuck out like a sore thumb in the flat grasslands.

The pickup jostled through the various switch grasses. The shocks were shot, and it wasn’t helping his tailbone none. He offered a friendly shout-out to the HAZMAT crew as he drove by. He felt for them. Those cumbersome suits were stifling hot according to Kyle.

The hackles on the back of his neck went berserk. His newfound early warning system was in full-gear. He grabbed the Bushnells from the front seat, baffled by the bending tufts of wild grasses just ahead.

“Grandpa Dean!” Twila’s scream pierced his inner hearing, giving his recent stent operation a run for its money.

Dead-heads sprang up from the grasses as if they had been lying in wait to ambush—some ole sucker. Before he knew it, they had him surrounded. He slammed the gas pedal and laid on the horn to warn . . . everyone. The wind better be blowing in the bunkhouse’s direction. Sound waves had a way of evaporating into the vast void of the plains. Come to think of it, why hadn’t those godawful things attacked the HAZMAT crew?

“They don’t want them,” an unsolicited voice disclosed.

He rammed over three snarling, emaciated dead-heads. Had they been waiting for the clean-up crew to leave? Naw, those things aren’t cognizant enough to wait patiently. The helter-skelter approach was more their modus operandi, devouring what they could. Nonetheless, Dean couldn’t shake the notion he had inadvertently foiled a surprise attack on the bunkhouse.

In a blink of an eye, the pickup’s windows shrouded over with the ghoulish, flesh-molten faces of the undead. Through a gap between the faces, he peered through the windshield, all the while blasting the horn. Not that it would do him much good.

He swerved the pickup this way and that and managed to lose a few. He refused to think the worst-case scenario—running out of gas at that precise moment. Luckily for him, he had hand-cranked the windows shut a minute earlier.

“Hell’s bells!” One of those ugly suckers hung from the roof rack. It punched the passenger’s window—punching until raw bone protruded from the knuckle. No amount of swerving was losing the bastard. And even worse, the two dead-heads dangling from the roof outside his door went into a flurry, punching the window.

Dean reached for his Glock, remembering all too well he had left the extra mags with Luther. This many X-strains required more than one fully loaded magazine. He knew that for damn sure. On impulse, he swung open his door, knocking off the bastards.

He slammed the brakes and lost darn near half the ones clinging to the wiper cowl at the base of the windshield. None the matter, they’d be back on the pickup in seconds. He drove over as many as he could before they found their feet.

“Naw . . .” The passenger’s side window crackled like an ice-covered puddle in the noonday sun. A dead-head dove halfway into the front seat—licking its chops. Dean was ready for it. It took two rounds to its skull at point-blank range to convince it otherwise.

Another sucker shoved through the window. With one hand on the wheel and one firing away, he aptly disposed of it. Albeit, spending more precious rounds.

The honking of horns brought him out of his despair as he fired into the skull of a dead-head cackling inches from his face. From the big house, four pickups raced toward him. Stanwyck’s men!

Another one leaped through the passenger’s broken window. He fired away—until the dull click made his stomach broil over. Flat out of ammo. It lolled its putrid head back as if pleased with its good fortune.

Not so fast. He Gibbs-slapped it with the Glock’s butt. And then the pickup stalled. Most likely out of gas.

“Grandpa Dean?”

The terror in little Twila’s voice chilled his heart. Hope she’s not watching this via a psychic satellite of the mind. He didn’t want her witnessing his untimely demise. He was down to his last resort and knew he would regret his next move. He popped open the door. Using mind over matter, he willed his body to go limp as a rag doll. He simply rolled out the door and onto the grass.

The momentum sent him into an unstoppable roll. He went with the flow. Wouldn’t you know, he collided with the worn-out boots of a dead-head. The crash sent it flying over him, giving Dean time to unsheathe the trench knife from his belt. A second later, it pounced onto him with the sickly-sweet breath of death. In a lethal slash, he severed its rotting head. But several pairs of shoddy shoes shuffled closer. Surrounding him.

Gunfire blasted his eardrums. Dead-heads spasmed to the ground next to him while he scrambled on all fours, unable to find his feet. There was one thing he had learned as of late. Adrenaline-spiked fear had a way of numbing his arthritis. He looked up to find Lopez of all people. Dean was at a loss for words.

“Hey there, Sheriff Wormer. I owed you one,” his former Boom Town deputy shouted.

“Am I ever glad to see you.”

Lopez yanked him to his feet. Meanwhile, a barrage of semi-automatic gunfire took out the rest of the horde.

When the shooting finally