The Zone: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

to ear, feeling rather accomplished. “I ain’t never shot one that close before.” He pulled out his mobile and snapped a picture of the body.
    “Damn it, Delroy. Why don’t you announce our presence to the world?” Steele said. You could hear the eerie groan of other infected in the building as they began to stir.
    “What was I supposed to do? Kill it with my bare hands?”
    “That’s what I’d have done,” Steele said.
    Delroy shook his head and picked up the corpse. He handed his mobile to Parker. “Here. Take my picture.”
    “Knock it off,” Steele said.
    “Oh, come on, Major.”
    “This isn’t a goddamn trip to Disneyland.”
    “Just one pic?” Delroy looked like a sad puppy dog, pleading for a treat.
    Steele nodded. “I see that mobile again, I’m gonna shove it up your ass.”
    Parker snapped a shot. The camera flash was blinding. Then she handed the phone back.
    Delroy blinked several times from the flash.
    “Feel like taking point now, dumb ass?” Steele asked.
    “Not really, sir,” Delroy said. “I can’t see shit.”
    “I really think I should have a gun,” Ferris said.
    Steele just stared him down, then pushed through the stairwell door into the hallway. His flashlight beam washed across a dozen infected. They staggered toward him, feet shuffling against the concrete. They wanted only one thing—to feed. 

CHAPTER 7

    THERE WASN’T MUCH consensus on what exactly happened. What caused the virus or where it came from. None of that really mattered anyway. What mattered was that these things had an insatiable need to gnaw on human flesh. Lurkers, roamers, stiffs, bone bags, and biters, were just some of the affectionate terms for them. Most people avoided the term zombie. It implied something supernatural, and nobody really wanted to deal with that. It implied there was no hope. The idea that it was man made was more comforting. If man had made them, man could cure them. But, perhaps, that was just wishful thinking.
    Steele wasn’t concerned with curing anyone. He was focused on killing, which could be accomplished in one of two ways. Decapitation, or destruction of the brain. The virus was thought to be transmitted by exposure to bodily fluids—blood, saliva, mucus. But nobody knew for sure. The general rule was don’t get bit, and don’t get fluids in your eyes or mouth. More than one soldier had joined the shuffle club by blasting a hole in a biter’s head and getting blood splatter in the eye.
    Steele lowered his tactical goggles that rested on his helmet. Then he reached behind his head and unsheathed a twenty inch sword from his back. It was affixed to his tactical vest. The black, carbon steel blade was duel edged and razor sharp. Teeth-like serrations near the hilt gave it a menacing look. The blade flared, then tapered to a piercing point.
    Steele twirled it with precision as the herd of ghouls advanced. With the skill of an expert swordsman, Steele slashed and hacked his way through the mass of infected. Twirling, spinning, slicing. Blood spattered the walls. Heads were sliced clean off, smacking to the ground like rotten pumpkins. Bodies crumpled. Steele reached the end of the hallway leaving a trail of corpses. He made it look effortless. He wiped the blood clean on his pants leg, twirled the blade around and sheathed it.
    His heart was pumping, blood rushing through his veins. A spike of adrenaline. It felt good to get back in the action. For a moment, Steele forgot all about his pain. Nothing says stress relief quite like chopping off someone’s head with a razor sharp blade.
    Delroy and the others stood bug-eyed and slack-jawed. They knew Steele was good, but they had forgotten how good. This was a reminder.
    “Let’s get moving,” Steele said.
    “On second thought, I want a sword,” Ferris said.  
    Steele marched through the building. The team fell in line behind him. It was an old warehouse converted to residential lofts. Overpriced cracker boxes with