This Would Be Paradise (Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

Ruth on their asses.”
    “I don’t think we should get too close. I’ve seen what those things are capable of,” Roy said.
    “Well, no offense,” I started, not having the time to sugarcoat my words, “but you guys aren’t doing very well with those guns. You’re just wasting bullets.”
    Roy grinned. “Never said I was handy with them. Now give me a hammer and you’ll see what I can do.”
    “Will the butt of your gun work?” I asked.
    “It’ll have to.”
    We descended on the nearest infected like we had a grudge. Roy used the butt of his rifle to bash in heads, and the chef used his crow bar to whack the infected off their feet and then he stabbed their heads with the narrow end.
    I swung at one and hit a solid part of its skull. My arms vibrated from the impact, almost causing me to drop the metal bat. The thing stumbled backward but didn’t fall. With a growl, he turned back toward me, allowing me to see my handiwork. The corner of his skull was caved in, making his head look like someone had taken the first slice of a cake.
    As I wound up for another hit, the chef bounded toward the infected and shoved the sharpened end of the crowbar into the back of its head, dropping him as fast as the rain was falling. I thanked him. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have someone watch your back.
    After ten minutes, our enthusiasm waned. We’d run so far that the sheets of rain completely obscured the building. Fallen bodies were all over the street but more were still approaching in the distance.
    “I don’t know how long we can keep this up,” huffed the chef.
    My shoulders shook with the deep breaths I took, and I inhaled raindrops with each lungful. My hair was matted to my face, and I had to wipe the strands out of my eyes. The rain was making it hard to hold on to the bat, my grip continually slipping.
    “We made a better dent than you did with the guns,” I said.
    “But now—”
    The sound of rapid gunfire erupted in the distance and the roar of an engine drifted our way. A large Chevy Avalanche came into view, screeching to a halt a few car lengths from us. Tim, one of the guards from the interstate entrance welcoming committee, was sticking out of the window with his large automatic weapon propped on the roof.
    “Oh look, skinny Rambo’s here,” the chef muttered, sounding like a case of sour grapes.
    I don’t know if “skinny Rambo” was accurate; Tim looked a lot more like Edward Norton than Stallone.
    “Anyone injured?” Tim yelled from his perch.
    “No, but we’re pretty damn tired,” Roy yelled back as he approached the truck.
    Karla was at the helm, the windshield wipers swiping as fast as they could.
    “You guys did a pretty good job.” Tim said this as if he were commenting on the weather—which was shitty. “You should head back inside.” He banged the truck’s roof. “Drive down the street!”
    Karla hit the gas, jarring Tim, but he managed to stay sitting. They sped off into the distance toward the approaching infected, the rain blanketing them from our sights. The popping of gunfire continued. Maybe he has this covered.
    “Come on, let them handle the rest.” Roy led us back to the apartment.
    Once inside, people bombarded us in the lobby.
    “Did you take care of the sick ones?”
    “How many more are out there?”
    “Can they get in?”
    “Listen up!” Roy boomed. “We took care of the closest ones. Tim and Karla are in the truck, taking out the rest. Until the rain clears, we can’t do much more.”
    Someone handed me a towel. The fabric was scratchy but dry. I wrung my hair out and patted down my skin. My clothes were soaked through and clung to my skin underneath. The chef turned to me as he towel-dried his own wet hair.
    “By the way, people call me Mac, and before you say anything, no, it’s not from the Big Mac. And if you try to be cute and call me pet names like Chef Boyardee, good luck getting served!” he warned.
    “I would never.” I