MZS: D. C. (Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Book 4) by K. D. McAdams Page B

The others may have assumed that there were still undead roaming, but I didn’t. I had moved on to how we deal with renegades and establishing trust with new groups.
    Having Todd turn into a zombie in the truck is resetting everything I thought I understood about the infestation. He wasn’t scratched, bitten, or otherwise infected. The simple act of dying caused him to turn.
    Jaden died and he didn’t turn. I guess dying from a headshot leaves nothing to turn. If zombies can start coming back without brains, we are in even more trouble.
    THUMP.
    THUMP….THUMP….THUMP
    “I could use a little help on the fifty-cal,” Patrick says, calm but loud from the driver’s seat.
    Parker has rolled down his window and is leaning out dangerously. The report of a handgun is distinct from his side of the rig. I never saw Cupcake pass him the weapon, but it make sense to use it from his seat. Patrick has the other gun, but he’s a little busy.
    Cupcake could probably get to the turret, but he is so large I worry that he won’t fit. Tucker is trapped behind him in the cargo space and I know how tight things are back there.
    That leaves me.
    I reach out and grab the magazine and duct tape armor around Todd’s leg. A drop of blood falls squarely on my hand. I pull away fast, as if the blood burns, worried that some little scratch is going to result in my infection. Fortunately, my skin is completely intact.
    I wonder for a second if anyone has studied the evolution of the infection. If body fluids are contagious while the zombie is animated, are they still contagious once the zombie’s brain has been scrambled? Maybe they are contagious for a time after the zombie transitions fully to being dead? The length of that window could tell us a great deal about whatever is causing this horror.
    With a deep breath I regroup and grab onto Todd’s legs with both hands. Lifting with all my strength doesn’t move him much. I’m not a weakling but the seated, twisting dead-lift of close to two hundred pounds is too much for me.
    “Cupcake. Help me lift him up,” I call into the back.
    My large friend is confused for a second or two. When he finally looks at my hands wrapped around Todd’s legs, though, he gets it. The two of us lift together and the body in the turret inches higher. A second thrust of effort leaves just the feet dangling down into the cab.
    From here I can take it. I crawl up onto the center floor and squat underneath the legs. Pushing straight up to a standing position causes Todd’s body to tumble over the edge of the turret.
    When my head finally reaches daylight I can see the fabric from Todd’s pants caught on a piece of metal. It’s enough to keep his limp body on the Humvee, but it doesn’t interfere with the machine gun.
    The machine gun that I now have to learn to fire.
    Grabbing the handles is an obvious move and one that should lead me to a means of firing the weapon. There is a lever in front of the right handle that is a little far for my finger to reach, but must be involved in the firing process.
    Nothing.
    Pressing a button that is a good fit for my thumb and stretching a finger forward to lift the lever results in an incredible explosion. I have no idea where the bullet went, but I’m shooting!
    A few short bursts are all it takes to figure out how to aim the gun. Trying to zero in on skulls from the top of a moving vehicle proves exceptionally difficult. When a zombie behind the one I was aiming at falls to the ground, I realize that I don’t need to kill them—I’ve simply gotta slow them down.
    With a more critical slant to my shooting, I start to notice an impact. When a torso explodes or a pelvis is shattered, the creatures are left doing little more than chomping their teeth. They remain a threat and could infect and kill any of us, but they cannot pursue or hinder our progress.
    The path in front of us is clearing. A border of immobilized undead—a border that I’ve created!—is starting to