kicked the gun out of the kid’s hand. He was close enough to do that. Kick the gun or kick the kid in the chest. Step to the side and just pluck the gun out of his little hands.
The way the kid’s arms had quivered, it was obvious that he was having a hard time holding up the cannon. Did he really think the kid had been strong enough to cock the gun once more before Cardo could take two steps and close the distance between them?
After firing, did the kid even have a decent grip on the thing? Had the gun already left his small hands before Cardo opened fire?
Three shots?
“ God,” he said.
There was a large crowd gathered before the fire station. He walked through them, head low, making eye contact sparingly. Bodies parted around him. Familiar faces turned to watch him pass, eyes wide and eyes weary. And guns; lots of guns. Rifles and shotguns; pistols hanging from hips like it was Dodge City. The folks who didn’t have guns had baseball bats and pitchforks.
“ Hey, Cardo,” someone said, and he just walked. It sounded like Mike Hanson, and this was good. He liked Mike, and was happy to know that Mike was alive, but that’s where it ended. He had no desire to hang around and swap war stories and speculate about what tomorrow would bring. He needed to be home and drunk and in his chair, and he needed the Proust kid out of his head.
They didn’t really need him around anyway. If he stopped walking and joined this band of survivors, it would be as one of them, not as the law. They were the law now. Out there, he’d just be another gun, and they had more than enough of those.
Across the street, bodies were lined up three rows deep in the BEISTLE BAKE parking lot. Their faces were covered in sheets or blankets or shirts. Sheets of paper and cardboard bearing handwritten names were pinned or taped to their chests, identifying the corpses for any relatives who wished to claim them. People sat weeping beside a few of them. A woman knelt, the rag-doll body of a toddler across her lap. The baby moved, but its movements were all wrong. A man knelt behind the woman, his face pressed into her shoulder.
Further down, a tangled and charred heap of limbs and torsos smoldered in the evening light. Not everyone had friends or family. He wondered if anyone would find the Proust kid, and what his name had been, anyway.
It wasn’t until he got past the throng that he realized what was wrong—he hadn’t seen any soldiers. The National Guard had pulled out.
END OF PREVIEW
PREVIEW
WORLD IN RED: A ZOMBIE NOVEL
By John Sebastian Gorumba
THERE IS NO EXPLANATION
Across the world, the recently dead rise and attack the living. Within forty-eight hours, civilization has collapsed.
THERE ARE NO RULES
The dead behave erratically-some are mindless, ranting animals. Some are slow and stupid, while others are swift and cunning. Sometimes, it is impossible to tell the living from the dead.
THERE IS NO HOPE
There is no place to run, nowhere to hide, and the living soon become far more dangerous than the undead.
As New Orleans burns, a father struggles to save his newborn son from any of a hundred unimaginable fates, all the while fighting to hold on to what is left of his own humanity.
World in Red is an unflinching and unpredictable excursion into horror, a terrifying journey that honors the conventions of the zombie genre while turning them upside down and ripping out their guts.
YOU ARE NOT READY FOR WORLD IN RED
"Almost unbearably bleak, World in Red is a can't-miss debut from newcomer John Gorumba. Harrowing and unapologetically brutal, this is a hardcore zombie book for hardcore horror fans."
Blu Gilliand, October Country
"If, at the end of the first chapter, you think you know how this story is going to play out, you're wrong. If, after you finish the last page you haven't found yourself shaken to the core, check to make sure you still have a
The way the kid’s arms had quivered, it was obvious that he was having a hard time holding up the cannon. Did he really think the kid had been strong enough to cock the gun once more before Cardo could take two steps and close the distance between them?
After firing, did the kid even have a decent grip on the thing? Had the gun already left his small hands before Cardo opened fire?
Three shots?
“ God,” he said.
There was a large crowd gathered before the fire station. He walked through them, head low, making eye contact sparingly. Bodies parted around him. Familiar faces turned to watch him pass, eyes wide and eyes weary. And guns; lots of guns. Rifles and shotguns; pistols hanging from hips like it was Dodge City. The folks who didn’t have guns had baseball bats and pitchforks.
“ Hey, Cardo,” someone said, and he just walked. It sounded like Mike Hanson, and this was good. He liked Mike, and was happy to know that Mike was alive, but that’s where it ended. He had no desire to hang around and swap war stories and speculate about what tomorrow would bring. He needed to be home and drunk and in his chair, and he needed the Proust kid out of his head.
They didn’t really need him around anyway. If he stopped walking and joined this band of survivors, it would be as one of them, not as the law. They were the law now. Out there, he’d just be another gun, and they had more than enough of those.
Across the street, bodies were lined up three rows deep in the BEISTLE BAKE parking lot. Their faces were covered in sheets or blankets or shirts. Sheets of paper and cardboard bearing handwritten names were pinned or taped to their chests, identifying the corpses for any relatives who wished to claim them. People sat weeping beside a few of them. A woman knelt, the rag-doll body of a toddler across her lap. The baby moved, but its movements were all wrong. A man knelt behind the woman, his face pressed into her shoulder.
Further down, a tangled and charred heap of limbs and torsos smoldered in the evening light. Not everyone had friends or family. He wondered if anyone would find the Proust kid, and what his name had been, anyway.
It wasn’t until he got past the throng that he realized what was wrong—he hadn’t seen any soldiers. The National Guard had pulled out.
END OF PREVIEW
PREVIEW
WORLD IN RED: A ZOMBIE NOVEL
By John Sebastian Gorumba
THERE IS NO EXPLANATION
Across the world, the recently dead rise and attack the living. Within forty-eight hours, civilization has collapsed.
THERE ARE NO RULES
The dead behave erratically-some are mindless, ranting animals. Some are slow and stupid, while others are swift and cunning. Sometimes, it is impossible to tell the living from the dead.
THERE IS NO HOPE
There is no place to run, nowhere to hide, and the living soon become far more dangerous than the undead.
As New Orleans burns, a father struggles to save his newborn son from any of a hundred unimaginable fates, all the while fighting to hold on to what is left of his own humanity.
World in Red is an unflinching and unpredictable excursion into horror, a terrifying journey that honors the conventions of the zombie genre while turning them upside down and ripping out their guts.
YOU ARE NOT READY FOR WORLD IN RED
"Almost unbearably bleak, World in Red is a can't-miss debut from newcomer John Gorumba. Harrowing and unapologetically brutal, this is a hardcore zombie book for hardcore horror fans."
Blu Gilliand, October Country
"If, at the end of the first chapter, you think you know how this story is going to play out, you're wrong. If, after you finish the last page you haven't found yourself shaken to the core, check to make sure you still have a
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