MZS: D. C. (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 4) Read Online Free PDF Page A

high-end look. If I was going to wear a watch, it had to be a Rolex or better. Jewelry had to be solid; gold, silver, or platinum. Clothes could not have any tags or labels, nothing “off the rack” was allowed in the gallery.
    It was kind of a depressing lesson for an art lover who thought the work should speak for itself. Who cares what I’m wearing if the piece I’m selling is absolutely brilliant? Sadly, the answer was virtually everyone.
    The jeans and canvas jacket I put on yesterday morning are far from designer. I suspect we all smell bad enough that the guys with guns can smell us from here. Last night we drank like fishes, slept in our clothes and did not shower. The cardboard-and-duct-tape armor is custom, I suppose, but not what you would call fashion. We are a long way from high-end art.
    Still, we are negotiating and that’s what worries me. Patrick does not seem like a closer. He has the first eighty percent of initiative to engage and entice, but no killer instinct to seal the deal. Yet here he is taking point across from a smartly dressed older gentleman.
    Individually we look like a mess and collectively we look even worse. Cupcake and I are on one side of the Humvee. Tucker and Parker are on the other, and Patrick has walked to the front. Not what you would call a formation.
    The men approaching us are in a clear formation: leader and two bodyguards. Do we really live in a world that requires bodyguards in an average Washington, D.C., parking lot?
    I suppose bodyguards were pretty popular in our nation’s capital. Again, it’s more about looking the part than needing the protection. This guy definitely looks the part. In fact, I think that I’ve seen his face before: maybe TV, a magazine or on the internet.
    When I finally look away from the familiar but unknown face, I check the building. Now I can see the women that Terri mentioned standing in the windows. They look scared and stand more like downtrodden prisoners than strong survivors.
    Patrick separates himself from the Humvee and walks toward the approaching men. Cupcake steps up to join him and Parker does the same. Tucker and I meet in front of the Humvee. Tucker leans back against the truck like we’re just hanging out by the beach.
    “Don’t lean on the truck, it makes you look weak,” I tell him.
    I wish I knew what was giving me such a bad feeling about this. Not wanting to look back at the women in the windows, I look to the edges of the building. Along the roof I spot two men holding what appear to be rifles. In the ground level entrance is another man with a black gun that looks similar to the ones held by the bodyguards.
    Suddenly my apprehension is obvious, and I know why: the women in windows are prisoners and the guards are on the outside. These men aren’t protecting; they are controlling.
    “That’s far enough,” the warden tells Patrick.
    “If you didn’t want visitors, you could have told us over the intercom,” Patrick says. Opening on the defensive, not good negotiating.
    “Of course we welcome all visitors. After all, this is the current seat of the United States government. That makes this the property of all citizens.” The man smiles a false politician smile.
    He is not even looking at Patrick. He’s staring at me. His eyes are hungry, and while I have never been assaulted, I imagine his is the face of a sexual predator.
    “We heard that the president was alive: is he inside?” Patrick asks. He’s distracted, which is probably what the man wanted.
    “Rumors are dangerous and we cannot make decisions without proof. It is my understanding and assumption that the president did not survive the initial outbreak,” the suit responds, a hint of joy in his voice.
    “I guess I understand that. Is there anyway we could talk about this inside? We’ve been on the run for a while and could really use some hot showers and real food,” Patrick says. He’s offering too much information without making the guy