Rednecks Who Shoot Zombies on the Next Geraldo Read Online Free PDF Page B

 
    After a few moments he mustered the strength to struggle to one knee and scoop up the shotgun. Some asshole had used a LAW rocket. The explosion had created a breach in the wall.
    The rednecks had scattered. One unfortunate dickweed had been standing too close to the blast; one of his legs and both of his arms lay in a bucket-wash of gore on the ground. Tom backed up the wall to his feet. His head was still spinning. From outside he could hear the steady popping of automatic gunfire and the occasional muffled wumf of an explosion. Through the hole in the wall, Tom saw rednecks with torches—flaming gun stocks, anything they could burn—run by, whipped into a psychotic mob, setting parts of the slaughterhouse on fire.  
    Someone outside was yelling something now, but Tom was too groggy to hear what it was.
    Straining, Tom peered more intently out the hole. The smoke from the fires had made the outside world hazy. He could barely make out the men outside.
    Tom heard the voice become more insistent, urgent.
    Someone was coming.
    Tom pushed two more shells into the shotgun.
    He looked up; the shape—two shapes—was much closer, advancing in a nimbus of firelight. They climbed through the breach and shambled toward him, heads lolling to one side, dead eyes fixed and focused...
    “Deadheads! Deadheads everywhere!” Tom heard the voice outside shriek. He snapped into awareness finally—too late, he thought, to defend himself from the approaching ghouls.
    He flinched in anticipation of the attack, but the zombie couple—a man and a woman—had stopped and were staring at the ruined mural.  
    Tom fired. The shotgun pellets pocked the man’s backside, tearing chunks of meat from his buttocks and thighs. The man fell to the ground. Tom ran, crouched like a linebacker, and plowed full-force into the woman. With a crack of bone, she crumpled under the assault.
    The woman lay on the ground, clutching frantically at Tom. He shrugged free from her grip, slapped her a few times before bashing her face with his boot until her head caved in.
    With a raspy cry—of anguish, maybe—the man leaped at Tom, propelling them both through the hole and into the mud outside causing Tom to drop the shotgun. As Tom struggled to his feet, he looked into the zombie’s eyes and saw something different—not the glazed, hopeless stare of the dead, but eyes alight with purpose. With passion. The man tore at Tom’s clothes, then clasped his hands around Tom’s throat. Tom clawed desperately at the man’s face, his fingernails gouging trenches in the rotting flesh, but it was too late. The zombie had him.  
    Just as Tom began to black out, the man was hit by a stray bullet and spun off his feet. Tom dropped into the mud, rolled over and hacked up some dry heaves. Then Tom turned and saw that the man was sitting up clutching his stomach—the bullet had traveled lengthwise through his torso, disemboweling him. Tom sloshed through the mud on his hands and knees and recovered the shotgun. He got up, ran over and kicked the man down. The man tried to protect his face with his arms. Tom batted away the dead hands, jammed the shotgun against the man’s throat and pulled the trigger. The blast sent the man’s head cart wheeling.
    Exhausted, Tom walked to a gnarled tree stump and sat down heavily. His fatigues were torn, his skin caked with mud. The battle, which was still raging at the other end of the slaughterhouse grounds, brought the gloomy dawn alive with tracer rounds. Tom watched the carnage with glazed, lifeless eyes. It seemed as if he had been here forever.
    Tom watched the zombies swarm as if spurred by religious fanaticism, like worshippers rushing to defend a blasphemed temple. A few of the rednecks had formed a skirmish line and were emptying their weapons into the onslaught. The first few waves of living dead were stopped, pitching and convulsing with each hit, and sent toppling into the mud. But more kept coming. From the woods,