The Undead World (Book 2): The Apocalypse Survivors Read Online Free PDF Page A

man was urged to kill himself and be done.
    Ram would cease to exist as well. It was this realization that had him staring with unseeing eyes as the zombies began to close in. He only had hours left as a person. The idea of becoming one of these horrible creatures he hated with such an intense loathing was a strange feeling indeed.
    One of them grabbed his ankle and pulled. Ram shot it in the top of the head and again the unknowable variances in bullet trajectories caused the spinning lead to blast out the front of its face, sending grey teeth and brain splattering onto Ram’s shoe. Sickened by the sight, he groaned, sounding like the monster he would eventually turn into.
    When he heard himself, he cried, “No, this can’t be happening.”
    Yet it was. Another beast—a tall, skinny zombie with long arms , got a hold of his belt at the hip and pulled hard. Ram slid down from the Humvee, practically into the bosom of the monster. He shot it as it craned its open mouth toward him. Flinching from the rain of blood, Ram staggered away.
    He became like a pin ball—bouncing from zombie to zombie, killing each but never with any purpose or plan of escape. He shot until the barrel of his pistol was scalding and the clip empty. With the same uncaring attitude he loaded the first of his three spares and began again the same slow killing. One after another they fell at his feet and he wondered why he bothered.
    What was the use? He had maybe ten hours left…and that last hour didn’t even count. The last hour would be spent in a delirium and the one before that would zip by as he cried, clutching his pistol and hoping to find the courage to use it on himself. The hour before that one would be spent alternating between pleading to God for mercy and cursing his name as the heat of his fever began to bake his brain.
    So how many hours did that really leave him? Six? Seven?
    The bolt of the Beretta clunked back and Ram blinked stupidly while his index finger pulled uselessly on the trigger. Slowly he came to realize he had shot himself dry. Automatically he grabbed the second clip from his belt as he stared at the zombie horde that had coalesced all around him. It was small as far as hordes went; maybe a hundred tops. Still it was enough. In his fugue state he had managed to trap himself.
    The front yard of the house was bordered by an impressive run of shrubbery standing at about six foot. There was no getting over it, or through it. Worse, some two dozen zombies had managed to get between him and the house, while the driveway, the only opening in the hedge, was practically clogged with the beasts. Cursing at his stupidity, Ram slowly fired each bullet with deadly accuracy as he backed to the green wall behind him.
    And still they came on and on.
    “I guess I won’t have to worry about a fever,” he whispered. With the heat of the battle, he felt, at least for the moment, somewhat like his old confident self again and he dropped the zombies one after another. This confidence lasted only the span of time it took him to go through the remaining bullets in the gun. When it was empty, his first thought was that he was going to have now keep track of how many times he pulled the trigger.
    It would be his last clip and it was very important that the fifteenth bullet be saved for himself. The fever scared him to no end, however the very notion of being eaten alive made his skin crawl.
    The only problem was that his last clip wasn’t where it was supposed to be! He yanked aside his coat and stared down at where the third magazine should’ve been sitting in its stiff leather holder. “It was there. I put it right there as always,” he said in a pleading voice, as his bulging eyes searched the grass beneath the feet of the surging zombies.
    It wasn’t in sight, but so desperate was the man to find the lost magazine that he let the undead close the distance quickly as he wagged his head from side to side staring intently down. A grey